a 


I  L 


t-' 


TEMPE  VALE 


OTHER  POEMS 


JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS 


The  songs  of  dead  seasons,  that  -wander 

On  "wings  of  articulate  words/ 
Lost  leaves  tkut  the  shore-ivind  may  squander, 

Light  flocks  of  untamable  birds  / 
Some  sang  to  me  dreaming  in  class-time, 

And  truant  in  hand  as  in  tongue  ; 
For  the  youngest  -were  born  of  boy's  pastime, 

The  eldest  are  young. 

SWINBURNE. 


CHICAGO 

CHARLES   H.  KERR  &  COMPANY 

17;  DEARBORN  STREET 

iSSS 


ffl 


Copyright,  iSSS 
Ry  JAMES  N.  MATTHEWS 


DEDICA  TION. 

TO  THE 

MEMORY  OF  MY  FATHER  #  MOTHER, 

AND  TO 

MY  FAIREST  CRITIC,  MY  WIFE, 

This  little  book  is  lovingly  inscribed. 

j.  N.  M. 


CONTENTS. 


—The  Spirit  of  Poetry,        ....  9 

TempeVale, 11 

A  Legend  Beautiful, 15 

The  City  of  Snow, 16 

A  Dream  of  Beauty,              17 

The  Death  of  the  Baby, 19 

November  Down  the  Wabash,      ....  21 

The  Old  Mill 23 

Alone  at  the  Farm, 26 

Her  Knitting  Needles, 28 

To  the  March  Moon,    ......  80 

A  Dream, 32 

A  Sea- weed, 83 

There  is  no  Luck  about  the  House.         ...  35 

Genius, 37 

A  Nocturne,      ........  38 

My  Guest, 40 

A  Vision,            ........  44 

The  First  Gray  Hair, 45 

Edison, 47 

The  Vale  of  Gold,        ......  49 

The  Crime, 51 

March 53 

She  Sleeps,        ...                              .,        .  54 

'Way  Down  in  Spice  Valley, 57 

A  Fragment, 60 

(5) 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The  Old  House-fly,      .  61 

Insomnia, G6 

They  had  no  Poet  and  so  They  Died,        .        .        .67 

At  "Waterloo,  69 

Gaun  Ilame, 70 

A  Ballad  of  Tears, 71 

July  in  the  West 73 

Illinois,  .  75 

The  Eyes  of  Eleanora, 78 

0,  Bleak  is  the  Night,  80 

A  Burden  of  Babylon, 82 

Behind  the  Veil,  83 

Day  and  Night, 86 

One  Golden  Hair, 87 

In  Summer  Woods,  89 

Severed  Friendship, 91 

My  Lady  Beautiful, 93 

In  Soudan, 94 

Out  on  the  Farm, 95 

The  Old  Fire-place, 90 

Joukydaddles, 100 

To  a  Terrapin, 102 

A  Profile  of  Fall, 104 

A  Valentine, 107 

'Tis  Always  Sunday  in  the  Woods,          .        .        .     108 

Lines  in  an  Album, 110 

When  Your  Father  went  to  War,    .        .        .        .111 

An  Invocation, 118 

A  Ballade  of  Busy  Doctors, 120 

Goodnight  and  Joy  be  with  you  All,  .        .        122 

Shakespeare, 124 

The  Soldier  of  Castile,  ....         126 

Her  Feet  on  the  Fender,        .        .        ,        .        .      131 

The  Old  Village  Depot, 133 

Indian  Summer, 136 

Lady  Laura  in  the  North, 139 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE. 

Meadows  of  Gold, 142 

At  Uncle  Reuben  Ragan's,          ....  144 

The  Night  you  Quoted  Burns  to  Me,     .        .        .  148 

The  Mystery  of  Barrington  Meadows,      .        .  150 

When  I  am  Old, 154 

The  Passing  of  the  Old  Year,       ....  156 

An  Extravagant  Simile,                   ....  157 

The  Pioneers, 159 

Taking  in  the  Hammock 169 

At  Christmas  Eve,        ......  170 

The  Old  Major  Speaks,           171 

A  Garland  for  the  Dead,              ....  174 

The  Foolish  Mariners,              177 


SONNETS    AND    RONDEAUX. 

To  a  Sleeping  Boy,                183 

A  Night  in  June, 184 

When  I  Come  Home, 185 

At  Milking  Time,             186 

October, 187 

November,       .                188 

Where  Willie  Was, .189 

In  Days  to  Come,             190 

Christmas  Morning,            191 

Doom,              192 

Rondeaux  of  Remembrance,             .        .        .  193 

John  A.  Warder,            195 

A  Bluebird  in  January,            196 

Could  She  but  Know,            197 

Could  Love  do  More, 198 

My  Favorite  Poem, 199 

What  is  Death, .200 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

She  steers  the  stars  through  Heaven's  azure 

deep; 

She  lifts  the  leaden  eyelids  of  the  morn; 
On  distant  hills  she  winds   the  hunter's 

horn, 

And  wakes  the  lonely  shepherd  from  his  sleep; 

She  scales  the  dizzy  ledge  where  torrents  leap, 

And  hangs  the  bloom  upon  the   bristling 

thorn; 

She  sits  for  hours  in  solitudes  forlorn, 
With   downcast   eyes,   where   hapless   lovers 

weep. 
When  Spring  comes  up  the  vale  in  Winter's 

trace, 
She  plucks  the  blossom  from  the  bud's  em 

brace; 

She  binds  the  golden  girdle  round  the  bee, 
And  lends  the  lily's  luster  to  the  pea; 
She  curves  the  swallow's  wing,  and  guides  its 


And  tips  the  dewy  meads  with  twinkling  light. 

(9) 


10  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

She  rides,  she  revels  on  the  rushing  storm, 
She  suns  her  pinions  on  the  rainbow's  rim — 
She  laves  in  mountain  pools  her  snowy 
limb, 

As  sweetly  chaste  as  Dian  and  as  warm; 

In  summer  fields  she  bares  her  Hushing  arm, 
And  sings  among  the  reapers.  By  the  dim 
Light  of  autumnal  moons,  her  tresses  swim 

On  gales  Lethean,  with  assuasive  charm. 

Into  the  chamber  of  the  alchemist 

She  peers,   or,   through   some   half-closed 
lattice,  sees 

Her  lover  by  the  wanton  night  wind  kissed. 
Anon,  she  walks  the  dim  Hesperidcs, 

Or,  mingling  with  the  spirits  of  the  mist, 
Dances  at  will  along  the  darkling  seas. 


IN  TEMPE  YALE. 

In  Terape  vale  the  sun  shines  fair, 

O'er  crystal  streams  forever  flowing, — 
On  Tempo's  rainbow-girdled  air 

The  velvet-breasted  flowers  are  blowing 
And  up  the  valley,  everywhere, 

The  golden  orange  groves  are  glowing: — 
And  violets  uplift  their  eyes, 
Bewildered,  to  the  stooping  skies, 
Dreaming  all  day  of  Paradise; 

And  blue-bells  from  the  tufted  sod, 
When  darkness  down  Olympus  dies, 

Out-stretch  their  pearly  palms  to  God, 
And  pour  their  fragrant  sacrifice, 
And  all  the  world  is  in  a  trance 
Along  Peneus'  blue  expanse, 

In  Tempe  vale. 

In  Tempe  vale,  no  sound  of  wars 
Goes  ever  to  the  mild-eyed  stars ; 
No  lily's  breast  is  tinged  with  blood, 

No  dreamer  from  his  rest  is  driven, 
But  ever  from  the  drowsy  wood, 

There  floateth  to  the  jeweled  heaven 


12  IN  TEMPE  VALE. 

Eternal  lullabies,  like  those 
That  murmur  in  the  crimson  rose; 
Or  like  the  symphonies  that  break 
From  out  some  lone  enchanted  lake; 
Or  like  the  rhapsodies  that  quiver, 
By  night,  along  some  sacred  river, — 
Ah,  only  holiest  things  of  earth, 
Spring  into  beauty,  and  to  birth 
In  Tempe  vale. 

In  Tempe  vale  no  bough  is  stirred, 

No  winds  are  in  the  conscious  tree; 
The  only  melodies  there  heard— 
Except  the  trill  of  some  wild  bird, 
Or  tumult  of  the  tippling  bee — 
Are  those  dim  strains  of  minstrelsy 
That  tingle  to  the  twilight  stars, 
From  laughing  lutes  and  low  guitars, 

On  many  a  Grecian  lover's  knee; 
And  dark-eyed  maids,  with  lips  of  wine, 
And  limbs  of  snow,  their  tresses  twine, 
By  fountains  flashing  from  the  hills, 
And  all  the  golden  ether  spills 
A  summer  splendor'round  the  vine, 
In  Tempe  vale. 


IN  TEMPS  VALE.  13 

In  Tempe  vale,  in  Tempo's  bowers, 

The  soul,  intoxicate  with  bliss, 
Goes  reeling  through  a  world  of  flowers 

That  hath  no  counterpart  in  this; 
And  far  beneath  the  lote-tree's  shade, 

Where  glow-worms  glimmer  in  the  grass, 
Is  heard  the  lonely  serenade 
Of  some  heart-broken  nightingale; 

And  dew-drops,  like  a  sea  of  glass, 
Their  love-lights  up  the  valley  trail, 

Until  the  night-tide  shadows  pass, 
And  daylight  dawns  o'er  Tempe  vale. 
O'er  Tempe  vale. 


In  Tempe  vale,  they  weave  the  dance, 
Along  its  lone,  star-lighted  river, 

By  those  wild  grottos  of  romance 

O'er  which  the  mellow  citrons  quiver, 
And  laughing  love  lives  on  forever! 

Ah,  nightly  to  the  cithern's  sigh, 

The  Muses,  from  their  haunts  on  high, 
Come  tripping  hither,  every  one, — 
And  Pan,  and  young  Endymion, 

And  Dian,  with  her  dapper  crew, 
The  piping  shepherd-lads,  and  all 


14  IN  TEMPE  VALE. 

The  Dryads  o'er  the  mountain  wall, 
Come  thronging  to  the  revel,  too, 
In  Tempe  vale. 

To  Tempe  vale,  along  good-night! 

The  glamour  of  my  idle  dream 
Is  over-past.     My  waking  sight, 

Alas!  is  blinded  to  the  gleam 
And  beauty  of  that  valley  bright. 
Its  blissful  bowers  no  more  I  see, 

Its  peaceful  paths  have  passed  from  view, 
Yet  down  to  the  JEgean  Sea, 

Still  fall  its  winding  waters  blue, 
Still  sings  the  bird,  and  hums  the  bee 

In  every  nook  the  dreamer  knew. 
No  summer-poet's  fickle  thought, 
On  Fancy's  pinions  ever  sought 
A  spot  with  sweeter  raptures  fraught. 
Than  Tempe  vale. 


A  LEGEND  BEAUTIFUL. 

'Twas  thus  the  Dervish  spake:    "Upon  our 

right, 

There  stands,  unseen,  an  angel  with  a  pen, 
Who  notes  down  each  good  deed  of  ours, 

and  then 

Seals  it  with  kisses  in  the  Master's  sight. 
Upon  our  left  a  sister-angel  sweet 

Keeps  daily  record  of  each  evil  act, 
But,  great  with  love,  folds  not  the  mournful 

sheet 

Till  deepest  midnight,  when,  if  conscience- 
racked, 

We  lift  to  Allah  our  repentant  hands, 
She  smiles  and  blots  the  record   where  she 

stands ; 

But  if  we  seek  not  pardon  for  our  sin, 
She  seals  it  with  a  tear,  and  hands  it  in." 

(15) 


THE  CITY  OF  SNOW. 

Silently,  silently,  all  the  night, 

Out  in  the  fields,  where  the  north  winds  blow, 
A  shimmering  army,  robed  in  white, 

Is  building  the  City  of  Snow. 

Hour  after  hour,  their  task  they  ply, 
Down  where  the  roses  used  to  grow, 

Piling  the  battlements  steep  and  high 
Of  the  silent  City  of  Snow. 

Out  in  the  dark  in  the  driving  storm, 
To  and  fro,  they  glimmer  and  glow, 

All  night,  as  their  deft  hands  frame  and  form 
The  mystic  City  of  Snow. 

Never  the  sound  of  a  hammer  smites 
The  milk-white  silence,  above  or  below, 

And   dumber  than  dreams   are   the    dapper 

sprites, 
That  build  the  City  of  Snow. 

'Tis  morn!  and  the  labor  is  all  complete, 
And  the  cold  north  wind  has  ceased  to  blow, 

And  Vandal  feet  are  abroad  in  the  street 
Of  the  sinless  City  of  Snow. 

(16) 


A  DREAM  OF  BEAUTY. 


I  muse  on  her  dark  eyes,  and  see  the  gloss 
Of  dewy  grapes  that  purple  in  the  gloom 

Of  amorous  gardens,  where  the  faint  winds 

toss 
O'er  violet  readies,  panting  with  perfume; 

A  dream  of  fawns!  peering  with  passionate 

glance 

Between  the  lindens,  at  mid-summer  dawn, 
"When  love  awakens,  and  desire  is  on, 

And  piping  robins  hold  the  world  in  trance. 

II 

I  dream  of  her  dark  hair,  and  feel  the  dusk 

Of  cooling  myrtles,  in  the  twilight  vales 
Of  Tempe,  when  no    mellowing  moonbeams 
husk 

The  shadows  from  the  shifting  nightingales ; 
A  vision  of  swift  ravens,  heading  south 

Between   pomegranate  boughs,  amidst  the 
hills 

Of  Arcady,  what  time  the  summer  spills 
Its  kindling  kisses  on  the  lily's  mouth. 

2  (17) 


18  A  DREAM  OF  BEAUTY. 

Ill 

I    sing   of  her   white  hands  —  two   dimpled 

sprites 
More   tremulous,   and  stainless,  and  more 

soft 
Than    rose-leaves    opening    in    mid-summer 

nights, 
By  moon-dawns,  in  the  deepest   woodland 

croft ; 

A  vision  of  vain  hopes!  a  shimmering  mist 
Of  swan-down,  cincturing  each  lovely  limb 
Of   Mab's  hand-maidens,   when  the  warm 

stars  trim 
Their  dewy  tresses  with  pale  amethyst. 

IV 
Then,  fancying  her  love,  I  hear  the  coo 

Of  doves,  far-hidden  in  the  citron  groves 
Of  Hellas,  where  the  high  gods  came  to  woo, 
And    change    for   mortal,    their  immortal 

loves ; 

A  vision  of  the  ripening  south — a  dream 
Of  loveliness  and  passion,  song  and  wine, 
And  Greek  girls  lolling  where  the  Bacchanal 

vine 
Tipples  and  sips  the  summer's  amber  beam. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  BABY. 

I 

Like  a  bird  flying  out  of  its  prison, 

Light-winged  and  alone, 
The  soul  of  wee  Robbie  is  risen, 

And  heavenward  flown. 

II 

Flown  heavenward  out  of  its  anguish, 

Sweet  motherless  one! 
Flown  heavenward  never  to  languish, 

As  time  weareth  on. 

Ill 

As  out  of  a  lily's  pale  chalice 

The  odor  is  blown, 
So,  forth  from  the  soul's  snowy  palace, 

The  life-light  is  gone. 

IV 

As  soft  as  the  tinges  of  twilight 

Out-fade  from  the  west, 
The  baby  sank  into  the  skylight 

Of  infinite  rest. 

(19) 


20      THE  DEATH  OF  THE  BABY. 
V 

No  longer  his  pink  baby -lingers 

Outrival  the  flowers, 
No  longer  his  baby -laugh  lingers, 

And  melts  into  ours. 

VI 

The  cradle  is  empty  and  hollow, 

Forever  and  aye, 
The  flight  of  wee  Robbie  we'll  follow, 

"When  beckoned  away. 


NOVEMBER  DOWN   THE   WABASH. 

Upon  the  Wabash  hills,  and  down 

The  lonesome  glens,  the  leaves  are  brown 

"With  early  frost,  and  gray  birds  skim 

The  cooling  waters,  and  the  slim 

Ungartered  willows  stand,  knee-deep 

Along  the  river's  edge,  and  weep 

To  see  the  Summer's  parting  gleam 

Pass,  like  a  shadow,  down  the  stream, 

Or  like  the  memory  of  one 

"We  loved  in  youth,  and  doted  on. 

Silence  is  on  the  Wabash  hills, 
Save  where  a  lonely  blue-bird  trills 
Upon  the  windy  oak,  or  where 
The  nuts  drip  from  the  branches  bare, 
Or  squirrels  chatter  in  the  sun ;  — 
A  hush,  as  if  all  life  were  done, 
Reigns  thro'  the  woods;  the  waters  lie 
So  dead  and  motionless,  the  sky 
Leans  dolorously  down,  as  though 
To  meet  its  mirrored  self  below. 

(21) 


22       NOVEMBER  DOWN  THE  W ABASH. 

No  boyish  laughter  pours  along 
The  "Wabash  hills, — no  lover's  song 
Re-echoes  up  the  tangled  ways, 
As  in  the  long,  glad  summer  days; 
No  bare-foot  lads,  with  hook  and  rod, 
Beside  the  shadowy  waters  plod,  — 
No  maids  come  down  to  twine  and  strew 
With  valley-flowers,  the  old  canoe, — 
Only  a  blind  owl  floating  by, 
And  far  clouds  driving  up  the  sky. 

Thus,  like  a  sombre  shadow,  broods 
November,  o'er  the  Wabash  woods ; 
Far  to  the  south,  the  slanting  sun 
Has  gone,  and  "Winter  soon  will  run 
His  sledges  up  the  frozen  heights, — 
And  grates  will  glow,  and  long  dark  nights 
"Will  trance  the  drowsy  brain  with  dreams 
Of  other  days, — and  fitful  gleams 
Of  Beauty  will  dissolve  the  gloom 
In  seas  of  summer  warmth  and  bloom. 


THE  OLD  MILL. 

The   morning  rose  bright  on  the  clover-clad 

hill, 

And  lightly  the  breezes  went  by, 
As  I  took  the  old  path  leading  down  to  the 

mill, 

That  stood  where  the  bluffs  beetle  high; 
The  path  leading  down  by  the  steep  to  the 

strand, 

Where  I  loitered  a  lad  in  my  mirth, 
When    life    was   a    beautiful    rainbow    that 

spanned 
The  loveliest  valley  of  earth. 

The  blue-bird  still  swung  on  the  sycamore 
boughs, 

The  sand- piper  rode  on  the  wave, 
And  still  to  the  pebble-paved  ford  came  the 
cows, 

At  the  noonday,  to  drink  and  to  lave; 
The  dam  was  nigh  down,  yet  the  cataract  fell 

O'er  the  ledge,  with  a  plunge  and  a  roar, 
That  seemed  to  my  heart,  in  its  tumult,  to  tell 

Of  the  halcyon  summers  of  yore. 

(23) 


24  TEE  OLD  MILL. 

The  rock  was  still  there,  where  we  dived  in 

the  tide, 
And  the  sands  where  we  stretched  in  the 

sun, 
But  the  many  gay  fellows  that  played  at  our 

side, 

Had  gone  from  the  valley,  each  one; 
The  old  fishing-log  it  had  floated  away, 

And  over  the  crumbling  oanoe, 
The  paddles  were  locked,  in  a  dream  of  decay 
Where  the  mold  and  the  rank  mosses  grew. 

By  the  dust-girdled  doorway,  where  gabbled 
the  geese, 

And  the  pilfering  swine  used  to  stray, 
The  grass  had  grown  up  in  an  emerald  fleece, 

That  lovingly  mantled  the  way ; 
I  saw  not  the  brown  little  bare-footed  maid 

Trip  down  the  long  path  to  the  spring, 
I  heard  not  the  sound  of  her  song  in  the  glade, 

Nor  the  light-hearted  laugh  at  the  swing. 

The  mill  was  as  mute  as  the  miller  who  lies 
In  his  green-curtained  cot  on  the  hill, — 


THE  OLD  MILL.  25 

And  I  thought,  as  the  tears  gathered  into  my 

eyes, 

That  the  dead  had  come  back  to  the  mill ; 
That  I  saw  the  old  wagons  roll  up  with  their 

grist, 

And  again  heard  the  rumble  and  roar 
Of  the  wheels, — but,  alas!  it  was  only  a  mist 
Falling  over  my  senses, — no  more ! 

Ah,  the  dust-covered  miller!   near  twenty  long 

years 

Have  flown,  since  he  took  his  last  toll; 
His  heart,  when  he  died,  was  as  sound  as  his 

burrs, 

And  as  white  as  his  flour,  was  his  soul; 
Still   the  wraith  of  him  stands  at   the  low 

batten-door, 

And  his  laughter  comes  back  from  the  past; 
Still  the  sound  of  his  footstep  is  heard  on  the 

floor, 
Tho'  the  mill's  but  a  wreck  in  the  blast. 


ALONE  AT  THE  FAEM. 

(Easter.} 

As  I  sit  alone  in  the  twilight  gray, 

Under  the  sound  of  the  April  rain, 
My  thoughts  go  back  to  an  Easter  day 

Of  the  long-ago,  and  I  listen  again, 

(But  listen  in  vain !) 

For   the  shouts  of  the  boys  who  used    to 
swarm 

Out  of  the  neighboring  town,  like  plagues, 
To  spend  a  glorious  day  at  the  farm, 

With  the  boys  of  the  country,  coloring 


And  I,  poor  fool !  was  as  gruff  as  a  bear, 
For  I  never  could  stand  their  noise — but 

Jane, 

Sweet  soul !  she  always  welcomed  them  there, 
With  a  love  that  her  dear  heart  could  not 
feign — 

(And  the  boys  loved  Jane!) 

"(26) 


ALONE  AT  THE  FARM.  27 

And  many  a  time  I  heard  her  say 

(In  the  after-years  ere  she  paled  and  died) 

That,  God  permitting,  on  Easter  Day, 
She  would  clasp  their  hands  on  the  other 
side. 

So  the  years  went  by,  and  the  boys  were 

grown, 
And  the  grass  waved  high  in  the  orchard 

lane, — 
And  down  where  the  sounds  of  war  were 

blown, 
The  lads  of  the  Easter-time  lay  slain; 

And  oh,  the  pain! 
And  oh,  the  sobbing — the  ceaseless  moan — 

The  long  sad  nights,  and  the  vigils  vain, 
Of  an  old  man  drooping  and  dreaming  alone, 
Of  days  that  never  come  back  again! 


HER   KNITTING   NEEDLES. 

In  the  bureau's  bottom   drawer,  as   I    rum 
maged  there  to-day, 

With  the  memory  of  other  times  aglow; 
I  found  the  knitting  needles  that  my  mother 

tucked  away, 

In  the  twilight  of  a  winter  long  ago , 
They  were  tangled  in  the  fingers  of  a  wee,  un 
finished  glove, 
And  when  I  stooped  and  touched  them,  it 

did  seem, 
I  could   see  the  vanished  features  of  the  one 

I  used  to  love, 
In  the  cheery  chimney-corner  of  my  dream. 

O,  the  little  shining  lances!  how  they  glittered 

in  the  light, 

Of  the  cabin  where  my  mother  used  to  sit, 
In  her  cosy,  cushioned  rocker,  till  the  middle 

of  the  night, 
A-crooning  tender  ditties  as  she  knit; 

(28) 


HER  KNITTING  NEEDLES.  29 

And  I  feel  my  feet  grow  warmer,  as  I  plod 

across  the  past, 
In  the  stockings  that  her  white  and  holy 

hands 
In  their  feebleness  had  fashioned,  ere  she  fell 

asleep  at  last, 
And  was  borne  into  the  summer-litten  lands. 

No  trophies  ever  dangled  in  a  mediceval  hall 

More  sacred  for  the  memories  they  hold, 
Than  these,  the  lowly  relics  of  the  saint  that  I 

recall, 

Thro'  the  twilight  of  the  tender  days  of  old: 
Each  needle  is  a  talisman,  a  token,  a  delight, 

A  wand  that  lures  my  fancy  unaware, 
From  the  prison  of  the  present,  and  its  shadow 

infinite, 

To  my  cabin  home,  and   mother  knitting 
there. 


TO   THE   MARCH   MOON. 

O  moon  of  March!  what  scest  thou 

But  dead  leaves,  still?     No  bursting  bud 
Breaks  into  bloom  on  any  bough, 

In  all  the  bare,  unbreathing  wood. 

O  sweet  March  moon ! 
Canst  thou  not  woo  the  bloomy  brood 

To  don  their  kirtles,  pink  and  white, 
And,  in  the  upland  solitude, 

Come  out  to-night,  come  out  to-night? 

O  moon  of  March!  come  down,  come  down, 

Perchance  a  new  Endymion  lies 
On  yonder  hill,  by  yonder  town, 

With  peerless  lips,  and  perfect  eyes. 

O  fair  March  moon! 
Forsake  the  dull  eternal  skies, 

For  just  a  hasty  swallow-flight, 
In  answer  to  a  lover's  cries, — 

Come  down  to-night,  come  down  to-night. 

O  moon  of  March!  O  lady  moon, 

High-throned  above  the  wreathing  mist! 

(30) 


TO  TUB  MARCH  MOON.  31 

Come  down,  in  silver  silken  shoon, 

Come  down  with  starlight  round  thy  wrist, 
O  pale  March  moon ! 

What  tho'  no  shepherd  keep  his  tryst, 
Like  that  sweet  lad  on  Latmos'  height, 

Yet  there  be  "  lips  that  should  be  kissed," 
Then  come  to-night,  then  come  to-night. 

0  moon  of  March!  so  proud,  so  cold, 
If  thus  thou  heedest  not  my  prayer, 

1  dare  to  brand  thee  as  a  bold, 
Night-walking  wanton  of  the  air; — 

O  vain  March  moon! 
Henceforth,  I  hate  thy  frozen  glare, 

Thy  loveless  and  illusive  light, 
And  so  I  plead  in  my  despair, 

Come  not  to-night,  come  not  to-night. 


A  DREAM. 

I. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  me  ? "  she  said, 

As  I,  her  old-time  worshiper, 

Stood  blanched  and  bloodless  as  the  dead, 

And  gazed  upon  the  face  of  her. 

As  soon  may  yon  poor  bird  (thought  I) 
Left  mangled  by  the  hedge  to  die, 
Forget  the  shaft  that  festers  yet 
"Within  its  breast, — as  I  forget. 

II. 

But,  oh!  each  old  remembered  wrong 

Died,  in  an  instant,  when  I  traced 

The  lines  of  agony  that  laced 

The  face  of  her  I  loved  so  long. 

I  read,  within  her  channelled  cheek, 

A  wretchedness  no  tongue  could  speak, — 

And  so,  bent  with  the  pain  of  years, 

I  wept, — and  kissed  her  thro'  my  tears. 

(82) 


A  SEA-WEED. 

A  seaman's  bride  knelt  low  beside  the  sea, 
Her  hands  uplifted  in  dumb  agony. 

The  rack  drave  in  against  the  ragged  coast, 
And  on  the  downs  the  raging  ocean  tossed. 

"  Give  back,"  she  cried,  "  O  heaven,  give  back 

to  me, 
One  ship,  of  all  the  ships  that  sail  the  sea." 

A  hurrying  sea-gull,  and  a  hungry  shark 
Made   answer, — -and   the   dark  grew   doubly 
dark. 

That  night,  a  sailor  pale  with   outstretched 

hand, 
Knelt  on  the  deck  and  prayed  for  grace  to  land. 

"  Almighty  God!  let  me  but  clasp  once  more, 
Ere  death,  my  waiting  one,  on  yonder  shore," 

He  said, — and  fell  upon  the  shattered  deck, 
A  lifeless  mass  amidst  a  hopeless  wreck. 

3  (33) 


34  A  SEA- WEED. 

The  boiling  waters  murmured  a  reply, 

As  the  last  bolt  came  rushing  down  the  sky. 

And  o'er  the  sunken  ship  the  sea-gulls  ilew, 
And  on  the  crags  the  night-winds  blew  and 
blew. 


THERE  IS  NO  LUCK  ABOUT  THE 
HOUSE. 

No  more  the  swallows  dart  and  dip 

About  my  cottage-eaves;  no  more 
The  tops  of  my  catalpas  drip 

With  bird-songs,  as  in  days  of  yore; 
My  grapes  are  mildewed  on  the  vine, 

My  apples  blighted  on  the  boughs, 
A  curse  has  come  to  me  and  mine, 

There  is  no  luck  about  the  house. 

The  grass  has  withered  from  my  lawn, 

And  blasted  are  my  chestnut  trees, 
From  whose  green  domes  in  days  agone, 

The  dawn-birds  poured  their  melodies; 
The  stream  that  vanished  down  the  vale, 

With  cups  of  comfort  for  my  cows, 
Has  failed,  at  last,  as  all  things  fail — 

There  is  no  luck  about  the  house. 

My  garden  now  can  scarce  be  seen, 
Gone  are  its  beds  and  winding  walks, 

And  caterpillars,  lank  and  lean, 
Climb  down  the  sapless  hollyhocks; 

(35) 


36  THERE  IS  NO  LUCK. 

My  meadows  of  their  flocks  are  shorn, 
The  hay  is  moldering  in  my  mows, 

And  death-worms  wander  in  my  corn — 
There  is  no  hick  about  the  house. 

My  horses  and  my  hounds  are  gone, 

Nor  any  household  pet  remains, — 
An  owl  hoots  on  the  chimney  lone, 

And  bats  whirl  darkling  thro'  the  panes ; 
Only  a  cricket's  dreary  moan, 

Or  dreamy  nibbling  of  a  mouse, 
Reminds  me  of  the  summers  flown, — 

There  is  no  luck  about  the  house. 

At  midnight  when  the  autumn  rains 

Are  chill  upon  the  dismal  flats, 
I  hear  a  sound,  like  clanking  chains, 

Upstairs  among  the  garret  rats; 
And  then  the  ghosts  of  other  times 

Heel  round  me  in  a  mad  carouse, 
With  all  their  follies  and  their  crimes, — 

There  is  no  luck  about  the  house. 


GENIUS. 

Not  those  alone,  who,  lapped  in  eider  down, 

And  shrined  in  templed  cities,  can  lay  claim 
To  Nature's  purple — to  the  poet's  crown, 
And  the  proud  prestige  of  the  minstrel's 

fame; 

Genius  is  even-handed!  the  rapt  Dame 
Alike  salutes  the  beggar  and  the  king, 

With   her   warm   touches  and  her  lips  of 

flame ; 

Bids  potentates  be  mute  and  peasants  sing, 
And  o'er  the  lowliest  roof  outspreads  her  dewy 
wing. 

With  her  desires  ye  may  dispute  in  vain, 

Ye  pampered  sons  of  pleasure, — ye  will  find, 
Where  least  expected,  her  supreme  disdain, 

For  she  is  fickle,  and  her  ways  are  blind ; 

Think  not  to  woo  her  with  a  thoughtless 

mind, 
Nor  win  her  with  the  witcheries  of  art, — 

Beneath  the  tatters  of  the  trampled  hind, 
She's  quite  as  apt  to  lodge  the  envious  dart, 
As  'neath  the  royal  robe  that  hides  an  empty 
heart. 

(37) 


A  NOCTUENE. 

All  things  that  we  can  hear  or  see, 

To-night,  seem  happy.  Every  tree 
Is  palpitant  with  voice  and  wing, 
And  vibrant  with  the  breathing  spring. 

The  very  grass  is  tremulous 

"With  music,  floating  up  to  us, 
So  softly,  spiritu'lly  clear, 
We  seem  to  feel  it — not  to  hear. 

The  moonlight's  luster  leaking  through 
The  bending  blossoms,  pearled  with-dew, 
Is  so  delicious,  so  divine, 
"We  quaff  its  splendor  like  a  wine. 
Only  the  faintest  wind  is  curled 
About  the  pale,  enamored  world, 
And  drowsy  perfumes  slip  and  drip 
From  every  pansy's  pouting  lip. 

Starlight,  and  melody  and  dreams! 

The  lover's  and  the  poet's  themes, — 
The  same  that  once  entranced  and  won 
The  listening  maids  of  Babylon — 

(38) 


A  NOCTURNE.  39 

That  charm 'd  the  ear,  and  caught  the  smiles 
Of  Beauty  in  the  Grecian  Isles, — 
That  lulled  in  old  Italian  dells 
The  Roman  lads  and  damosels. 

On  such  enchanting  nights  as  these, 
Our  spirits,  for  a  moment,  seize 

The  ravishment  of  life  that  runs, 

Exuberant,  thro'  stars  and  suns; 
And  as  we  catch  the  whirl  and  whir, 
The  planetary  pulse  and  stir, 

We  break  the  seals  of  sense,  and  scan 

The  majesty  of  God  and  man. 


MY  GUEST. 

There  is  a  guest  that  I  detest,  forever  at  my 

side, 
"Who  clings  to  me  as  fondly  as  a  bridegroom 

to  his  bride; 
Who  leers  at  me,  and  jeers  at  me,  and  when  I 

cross  his  will, 
"Who  only  smiles  sardonic'ly,  and   hugs   me 

closer  still; 
I  hate  him,  and  berate  him,  yet  he  trudges  at 

my  heels, 
And  reaches  in  my  pockets,  and  revels  at  my 

meals ; 
I  defy  him,  and  would  fly  him,  but  he  only 

presses  closer, 

And  whispers  to  each  wish  of  mine  an  ever 
lasting,  "  No,  sir." 
I  have  chided  and  derided,  till  I'm  almost  out 

of  heart, 
I've  abused  him,  and  misused  him,   but  he 

never  will  depart; — 
lie  squeezes  me,  and  freezes  me,  and  \vell-nigh 

drives  me  mad, 

(40) 


MY  GUEST.  41 

He  tortures  and  he  teases  me,  and  growls 
when  I  am  glad; 

He  glares  at  me,  and  stares  at  me,  as  any 
ghoul  might  do, 

He  has  shattered  every  promise  that  my  soul 
was  anchored  to; 

He  has  wrecked  me,  and  bedecked  me  with 
the  tattered  garbs  of  woe, 

He  has  crossed  my  happy  threshold,  and  has 
laid  my  loved  ones  low; 

He's  as  wary  as  a  beagle,  and  he  grins  in  such 
a  style, 

That  the  cunning  of  a  serpent  is  apparent  in 
his  smile; 

He  is  lank,  he  is  lean,  and  his  fingers  are  un 
clean, 

He  is  ragged,  lie  is  haggard,  he  is  spiteful  and 
he's  mean ; 

Than  Adam  he  is  older,  than  Satan  he  is  bolder, 

He's  as  ghastly  as  a  skeleton,  and  uglier  and 
colder; 

When  the  winter- winds  are  dire,  he  sits  crouch 
ing  at  my  fire, 

And  glowering  at  my  beggary  with  eyes  that 
never  tire; 


42  MY  QUEST. 

He's  the  parent  of  all  crime,  in  each  country, 

and  each  clime, 
And  has  tramped  the  wide  world  over,  hand  in 

hand,  with  Father  Time; 
His  record  all  may  read,  in  the  hearts  that 

break  and  bleed, 
On  the  lips  of  little  children  that  forever  pine 

and  plead; 

And  his  deeds  are  further  written,  over  sleep 
less  eyes  red-litten, 
Over  cold  and  empty  cradles,  over  roofs  by 

sorrow  smitten ; 
Over   shattered  hopes   once   cherished,   over 

pleasures  that  have  perished, 
Over  broken  dreams  of  glory,  that  a  better 

manhood  nourished; 
In  the  byways,  and  the  highways,  he  goes 

onward  unmolested, 
And  wakes  the  world  to  labor  ere  its  weary 

hands  are  rested; 
He's  a  beggar,  and  a  ranger,  and  was  present, 

not  a  stranger, 
At  the  birth  of  the  Messiah,  in  the  cold 

Judean  manger; 
He  has  trailed  along  the  path  of  the  tempest 

in  its  wrath. 


MY  QUEST.  43 

And  has  gloated  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  mouldered 

aftermath ; 
He's  the  Prince  of  Empty  Pockets,  out  at 

elbow  and  at  knee, 
He's  a  knight  without  a  copper,   whom  we 

nickname — Poverty. 


A  VISION. 

And  in  my  dream  of  beauty,  I  beheld 

A  being  rapt  and  radiant  as  a  star, 
Beneath  whose  kindling  light  my  spirit  swelled 

To  melody — and,  streaming  from  afar, 
I  saw  the  specters  of  the  dawn  unbar 

The  gates  of  morning;  and  on  every  gale, 
That  blew  around  Aurora's  bannered  car, 
I  saw  the  Summer's  censer-swingers  trail 

Their  odorous  incense  over  hill  and  dale. 

And  on  my  sight  uprose  a  golden  mist, 

Peopled  with  many   a  floating  form    and 

fair, — 
A  Paradise  of  wandering  souls,  I  wist, 

Chained  to  the  shifting  Eden  of  the  air, 
In  snowy  cavalcades  of  sweet  despair; 

And  some  had  harps  and  sang,  and  some 

had  flowers, 

And  others  crowns, — and  all  were  debonair ; 
And  everywhere  were  grottos,  glades,  and 

bowers, 

And  purling  fountains,  vistas,  shrines,  and 
towers. 

(44) 


THE  FIEST  GRAY  HAIR. 

And  them  hast  come  at  last, 
Thou  baleful  issue  of  the  buried  years — 

Sad  fruitage  of  the  past, — 
Root-nurtured  in  a  loam  of  hopes  and  fears; 
I  hail  thee,  but  I  hate  thee,  lurking  there, 
Thou  first  gray  hair. 

Thou  soft  and  silken  coil, 
Thou   milk-white  blossom   in   a  midnight 

tress ! 

Out  from  the  alien  soil, 
I'll  pluck  thee  in  thine  infant  tenderness, 
As  the  rude  husbandman  uproots  the  tare, 
Thou  first  gray  hair. 

Of  all  the  fleecy  flock, 
Thou  art  the  one  to  loathe  and  to  despise; 

The  cheat  within  the  shock, 
The  mould  that  on  the  early  harvest  lies, 
The  mildew  on  the  blossoms  of  the  pear — 
Thou  first  gray  hair. 

(45) 


46  THE  FIRST  OR  AT  HAIR. 

And  tliou  the  Judas  art, 
The  tattler  of  old  Time,  who  doth  betray 

The  weary  worn-out  heart, 
Ere  yet  we  dare  to  dream  of  its  decay ; 
Thou  art  a  hint  of  wreck  beyond  repair, 
Thou  first  gray  hair. 


EDISON. 

Upon  a  time  at  Menlo  Park, 

A  merry  genius  wrought, 
Day  after  day,  from  dawn  to  dark, 

The  cunning  webs  of  thought; 
And  as  his  nimble  fancy  drew 

The  threads  of  doubt  apart, 
Strange  fabrics  'neath  his  fingers  grew, 

To  wondrous  forms  of  art. 

To  words  articulate  he  gave 

The  wings  of  wider  flight; 
He  made  the  human  voice  his  slave, 

And  robbed  the  earth  of  night; 
Of  speech  he  caught  the  subtle  sound, 

And  treasured  it  so  clear, 
That  dead  men,  lying  underground, 

May  still  be  talking  here. 

The  wizards  of  the  elder  age 
Have  dwindled  into  naught, 

Beside  this  later  heritage, 
This  Heracles  of  thought 

(47) 


48  EDISON 

With  spider-energy  he  weaves 

The  gossamers  that  bind, 
Through  every  land,  in  richer  sheaves, 

The  hearts  of  all  mankind. 


THE  YALE  OF  GOLD. 

(They  tell  of  a  wonderful  valley  in  the  Sierra  Madre,  which 
glistens  with  gold  and  is  resplendent  with  bright  waters  and 
beautiful  flowers.  Connected  with  it  are  many  fascinating  leg 
ends  of  Indian  origin,  the  prettiest  of  which  is  the  belief  of  the 
natives  that  Montezuma  will  some  day  return  and  free  them  from 
the  dominion  of  the  descendants  of  the  Conquestodores.) 

Far  to  the  south  and  west  there  lies, 

Away  in  the  sun-set  land, 
Where  the  weird  Sierra  lifts  to  the  skies 

The  wealth  of  her  jeweled  hand — 
There  lies  deep  hid  in  the  mountain  range, 

As  old  as  the  world  is  old, 
A  fabulous  valley,  dim  and  strange, 

That  is  known  as  the  Yale  of  Gold. 

Never  a  white  man's  foot  has  crossed 

An  Eden  as  fair  as  this, 
Since  bidding  adieu  to  the  one  he  lost, 

On  the  brim  of  the  world,  I  wis ; 
There   are  flowers  as  bright  as  the  orbs  of 
night, 

And  birds  of  radiant  wing — 
And  streams  that  quiver  and  dance  forever, 

In  time  to  the  tunes  they  sing. 

4  (49) 


60  THE  VALE  OF  GOLD. 

There's  a  golden  grot,  and  a  golden  ledge, 

And  blooms  of  gold,  and  golden  bees, — 
Gold  in  the  grass,  and  the  sighing  sedge, 

And  gold  in  the  orange  trees; 
There's  gold  in  the  stars,  and  gold  in  the 
stream, 

And  gold  in  the  skin  of  the  snake — 
Gold  in  the  moon  when  the  dreamers  dream, 

And  gold  in  the  morn,  when  they  wake. 

And  a  seer  hath  writ  on  a  golden  stone, 

In  a  golden  time  of  the  past, 
How    the   Montezumas   will  mount   their 
throne 

Again  in  the  valley  vast; 
And  the  fires  of  the  Aztec  priests  will  burn 

Once  more  on  the  altars  cold, 
And  the  gods  of  the  vanquished  race  return, 

To  reign  in  the  Vale  of  Gold. 


THE  CRIME. 

Here  lived  the  slaver,  and  there  the  slain, 

With  barely  an  acre  of  ground  between ; 

'Twas  night!  they  stood  in  the  wind  and  rain, 

And  quarrelled, — next  morning  a  ghastly  stain 

Of  blood  on  the  meadow-grass  was  seen. 

And  one  was  dead,  and  one  had  fled, 

And  all  night  long  the  mourners  wept ; 
The  widow  wailed  in  the  dusk  by  the  dead, 
And  the  wife  of  the  slayer  shook  with  dread, 
And  the  north-wind  over  the  chimney  swept. 

And  these  were  farmers,  and  these  were  friends, 

Friends,  I  say,  till  that  night  in  the  Fall; 
Too  proud  was  the  one  to  make  amends 
For  a  foolish  wrong,  and  the  bloody  ends 
Of  passion  followed,  with  grief  and  gall. 

Then  a  gibbet  loomed  in  the  dusky  sky, 

And  a  blue-eyed  orphan  pierced  the  night 
With  desolate  sobs,  and  a  mother's  cry 
Outrang  the  blast,  as  it  whistled  by, 
In  its  wild,  unbridled  flight. 

(51) 


52  THE  CRIME. 

They  laid  the  slayer  not  far  from  the  slain, 
In  the  village  church-yard,  under  the  hill, 

And  the  meadows  of  death  were  dearth  of 
grain, 

And  the  winds  blew  over  the  unplowed  plain, 
For  the  hands  of  the  husbandmen  were  still. 

I  passed  by  the  crumbling  huts,  to-day, 

And  birds  were  out,  and  the  land  was  green ; 
Two  women  withered,  and  bent,  and  gray, 
Sat,  each  in  the  shade  of  her  own  doorway, 
And  children  played  on  the  ground  between. 


MAKCII. 

The  gables  of  the  farm-house  groan, 
And  down  the  orchard's  barren  rows, 
Beyond  the  hills,  a  cloud  of  crows 

Against  the  windy  west  is  blown. 

The  falling  sun  is  fringed  with  mist, 
And  east-ward  like  an  Indian  queen, 
The  moon  at  intervals  is  seen, 

Thro'  dripping  rifts  of  amethyst. 

A  few  stray  flakes  of  snow — and  then, 
The  all-night  pattering  on  the  pane 
Of  slumber-wooing  sleet  and  rain — 

Then  morning — and  the  winds  again ! 

o  o 

(53) 


SHE  SLEEPS. 

'Twas  summer's  noon!  One  I  had  known 

Lay  stark  upon  her  lily  bed; 
And  one  I  knew  not,  wept  alone, 

Beside  the  lady  lying  dead ; — 
The  lady  with  the  long  brown  hair, 

And  lucent  eyes  of  Heaven's  own  blue, — 
A  lady  fair  and  debonaire, 

As  e'er  was  given  man  to  woo. 

He  wept  for  eyes  that  ne'er  again 

Would  lift  their  love-light  to  his  own — 
His  tears  fell  like  the  autumn  rain, 

O'er  days  of  joy  forever  flown; 
He  wept  as  one  might  weep  who  stands 

Outside  the  pale  of  Paradise, 
When  some  sweet  saint  with  pleading  hands 

Floats,  dream-like,  o'er  his  tranced  eyes. 

He  wept  the  tender  heart  and  true, 
That  fell  to  dust  before  his  eye — 

He  wept  as  knightly  spirits  do, 
O'er  all  the  beauty  that  can  die ; 

(54) 


SHE  SLEEPS.  55 

He  wept  to  hear  his  orphans  cry, 

Amid  the  gloom,  the  long  night  through, — 

lie  wept  until  his  soul  was  dry 
Then  slept — and  woke  to  weep  anew. 

And  in  and  out  the  people  drew, 

And  much  they  marveled — much    they 

praised 
The  lady's  loveliness,  whereto 

Death's  awful  signet  had  been  placed ; 
And  kinsmen  from  the  fair  land  round 

Came  in  with  weeping  lids  and  lips, 
And  round  the  marble  mother  bound 

Their  garlands, — love's  Apocalypse! 

She's  gone  into  the  silent  land, 

She's  faded  from  this  world  of  ours, — 
Where  summer's  golden  skies  expand, 

She's  folded  in  a  realm  of  flowers ; 
She  sleeps — the  fair  young  mother  sleeps, — 

No  words  of  ours,  no  cries,  no  tears, 
Can  pierce  the  dull  grave's  gloomy  deeps, 

Thro'  all  the  intervital  years. 

She  sleeps, — nor  any  dreams  hath  she, — 
The  tides  may  ebb,  the  tides  may  flow ; 


56  SHE  SLEEPS. 

Where  once  she  was,  she  ne'er  can  be, 
While  round  the  world  the  wild  winds 
blow ; 

She  sleeps — God  rest  her  where  she  lies! 
Until  the  gates  of  dawn  unbar, 

Then  give  her  spirit  strength  to  rise 
To  life  in  some  sublimer  star! 


'WAY  DOWN  IK  SPICE  VALLEY. 

I. 

'Way   down   in    Spice   Yalley   I'm    drifting 

to-night, 

On  a  river  of  dreams,  with  a  heart  that  is  light 
As  the  lilt  of  the  woodlark,  a-tilt  on  the  tree, 
By  the  spot  where  my  cot  in  that  vale  used 

to  be — 

When  life  was  a  lily  just  opening  its  eye, 
To  the   dew   of  the  dawn,  and  the  blue  of 

the  sky, 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Yalley. 

II. 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Yalley,  in  fancy,  I  see 
The  bloom  of  the  clover  still  beck'ning  the  bee — 
The  low-leaning  orchards,  the  herds  on  the  hill, 
And  the  road,  like  a  ribbon  unspooled,  to  the 

mill ; 
Still,  still,  in   my  dream,  I  can  see  the  old 

stream, 

(57) 


58         '  WA  T  DO  WN  IN  SPICE  VALLE T. 

And  the  ford,  where  the  farmer  drove  over  his 
team, 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley. 

III. 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Yalley,  Old  Time  falls 

asleep, 
With  his  head  on  the  sward,  in  a  slumber  so 

deep 
That  the  birds  cannot  wake  him,  with  melodies 

blithe, 
And   the  long  valley-grasses  grow  over    his 

scythe, — 
And  Summer  kneels  down,  in  her  long  golden 

gown, 
On  a  carpet  of  green,  where  the  skies  never 

frown, 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley. 

IV. 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley,  my  memory  goes, 
With  a  sigh,  like  the  sob  of  the  river  that  flows 
In  that   far-away   vale, — and  I   pray  in   my 
dream, 


'WAY  DOWN  IN  SPICE  VALLEY.         59 

To  be  borne,  when  I  die,  to  that  beautiful 

stream, 

And  tenderly  laid  in  the  welcoming  shade 
Of  the  wide-spreading  woods,  where  I  wandered 

and  played, 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Yalley. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

There  is  no  panacea  known 
To  soothe  the  soul  when  hope  is  flown — 
There  is  no  balm  the  wound  to  heal, 
When  Love  withdraws  his  dripping  steel. 

The  mangled  heart  may  still  beat  on, 
When  everything  it  prized  is  gone — 
Throb  on,  without  one  pleasing  pain, 
To  indicate  if  life  remain. 

God  pity  him  who  cannot  die, 
When  all  his  dreams  in  ashes  lie, 
And  through  his  soul's  dismantled  hall 
The  spectral  past  holds  carnival. 

(60J 


THE   OLD  HOUSE-FLY. 

I. 

Go  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift  the 

windows  high, 
Let  out  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  let  in  the 


I'm  weary  of  this  stale  repose,   and  long  to 

hear  again, 
The  sweetest  sound  of  all  the  year,  the  fly 

upon  the  pane;  — 
I  long  to  see  him  bobbing  up  and  down  the 

sill  and  sash, 
I  long  to  feel  his  tickling  tread  upon  my  soft 

mustache; 
I  love  to  see  him  tilting  on  his  slender,  tender 

toes, 
I  love  to  watch  him  bump,  and  buzz,  and 

balance  on  his  nose; 
In  all  the  universe,  to-day,  of  merry  song  and 

glee, 
O,   tell  me  where's  another  that  is  happier 

than  he; 

(61) 


62  THE  OLD  HOUSE  FLY. 

Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift 

the  windows  high, 
Let  out  the  gloom  and  silence,  and  let  in  the 

jolly  fly. 

II. 

O,  the  old  house-fly!  O,  the  brave  house-fly! 
A  straddling  o'er  the  butter-dish,  a  sprawling 

o'er  the  pie, — 
A  jogging  thro'  the  jell  and  jam,  and  jouncing 

round  the  cream, 
As  prone  to  risk  a  summer  sail  upon  the  milky 

stream ; 
A  roving  life  the  rascal  leads  thro'  all  the  rosy 

hours, 
A  sipping  only  of  the  sweets,  and  skipping  all 

the  sours; 
A  button-headed  roustabout,  a  lover  light  and 

bold, 
Who  revels  on  the  ripest  lips  that  mortal  eyes 

behold ; 
"Who  clambers  up  the  softest  cheek,  and  up 

the  whitest  arm, 
And  loiters  on  the  fairest  breast  that  ever  love 

made  warm ; 


THE  OLD  ROUSE-FLY.  63 

Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift 

the  windows  high, 
Let  out  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  let  in  the 

jolly  fly. 

III. 

O,  the  old  house-fly !  O,  the  jolly  house-fly ! 
lie  was  present  at  our  coming,  he'll  be  with 

us  when  we  die; 
From  Turkestan  to  Mexico,  his  broad  dominion 

runs, 
And    his    nature    never    changes    with    the 

"process  of  the  suns;  " 
From  the  days  of  dusky  Cheops,  down  thro' 

centuries  of  dirt, 
'Tis  a  matter  of  conjecture,  if  he  ever  washed 

his  shirt; 
He    has    dined    with    every   poet  from   the 

patriarchal  Chaucer, 
He  has   often  taken  pleasure-trips  in  Billy 

Shakespeare's  saucer ; 
He  dipped  his  saucy  noddle  into  Cleopatra's 

cup, 
When  the  amorous   Antonius  his  kingdom 

offered  up; 


64  THE  OLD  HOUSE  FLY. 

Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift 

the  windows  high, 

Let  out  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  let  in  the 
jolly  fly. 


IY 


O,  the  old  house-fly !    O,  the  naughty  house- 

fly! 
He  dances  on  the  baby's  lip,  and  on  the  dead 

man's  eye; 
He's  first  to  taste  the  tawny  wine  within  the 

tippler's  glass, 
He  prances  on  the  prelate's  nose  whene'er  he 

goes  to  mass; 
He's  found  within  the  skipper's  hut,  and  in 

the  gilded  hall, 
A  giddy  gambolier,  who  pays  his  compliments 

to  all; 
When  our  mothers  rocked  the  cradles,  in  the 

cabins  of  our  birth, 
His  happy  chorus  blended  with  the  cricket 

on  the  hearth, — 
And  I  love  the  recollection  of  the  hours  I've 

seen  him  crawl, 


THE  OLD  UOUSE-FLT.  65 

In  the  summer-time  of  childhood,  up  and  down 

the  whitened  wall ; 
Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide,  and  lift 

the  windows  high, 
Let  out  the  gloom  and  silence,  and  let  in  the 

jolly  fly. 


INSOMNIA. 


Into  the  dark  and  chambered  deep, 

I  wearily  cast  rny  eye, 
And  cry  to  the  echoing  night  for  sleep, 

But  ever  in  vain  I  cry. 

II 

For  the  wheels  of  memory  turn, 

And  passions  old  arise, 
And  the  wasted  years  come  back  and  burn 

The  slumber  out  of  my  eyes. 

Ill 

And  I  sob  like  a  child  in  pain, 
For  the  rest  that  comes  not  nigh, 

And  out  in  the  dark  I  hear  the  rain, 
Where  my  shattered  idols  lie. 

(66) 


"THEY  HAD  NO  POET  AND  SO 
THEY  DIED." 

In  the  dim  waste  lands  of  the  Orient  stands 

The  wreck  of  a  race  so  old  and  vast, 
That  the  grayest  legend  can  not  lay  hands 

On  a  single  fact  of  its  tongueless  past; 
Not  even  the  red  gold  crown  of  a  king, 

Nor  a  warrior's  shield,  nor  aught  beside, 
Can  history  out  of  the  ruins  wring, — 

They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died. 

Babel  and  Nineveh,  what  are  they, 

But  feeble  hints  of  a  passing  power 
That  over  the  populous  East  held  sway, 

In  a  dream  of  pomp  for  a  paltry  hour? 
A  toppled  tower,  and  a  shattered  stone, 

"Where  the  satyrs  dance,  and  the  dragons 

hide, 
Is  all  that  is  known  of  the  glory  flown, — 

They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died. 

Down  where  the  dolorous  Congo  slips, 
Like  a  tawny  snake,  thro'  the  torrid  clime, 

(67) 


68  THEY  HAD  NO  POET. 

Man's  soul  has  slept  in  a  cold  eclipse, 

On  the  world's  dark  rim,  since  the  dawn  of 
time ; 

And  if  ever  the  ancient  Nubians  wrought 
A  work  of  beauty,  or  strength,  or  pride, 

It  was  unrecorded,  and  goes  for  naught, — 
They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died. 

And  even  here,  in  the  sun-crowned  "West, 

In  the  land  we  love,  in  the  vales  we've  trod, 
Where  the  bleeding  palms  of  the  world  find 
rest 

On  Freedom's  lap,  at  the  feet  of  God, — 
Even  here,  I  say,  ere  the  earth  waxed  old, 

A  race  Titanic  did  once  abide, 
But,  ah!  their  story  is  left  untold, — 

They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died. 

The  same  old  tale !  and  so  it  will  be, 

As  long  as  the  heavens  feed  the  stars, — 
As  long  as  the  tribes  of  men  shall  see 

A  lesser  glory  in  arts  than  wars ; 
And  so  let  us  live,  and  labor,  and  pray, 

As  down  we  glide  with  the  darkling  tide, 
That  never  a  singer  of  us  may  say, 

They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died. 


AT   WATEELOO. 

"Stand  firm!"  said  the  Duke,   as   a  courier 

came 
Thro'  the  battery's  breath,  with  his  bare  brow 

aflame ; 
"Stand    firm!"— "But  we  perish"— "  Stand 

firm !"  cried  the  Duke, 

And  the  officer  flushed  as  he  felt  the  rebuke, 
But  he  coolly  replied,  'mid  the  roar  of  the 

gun, 
"  You'll  find  us  all  here  when  the  battle  is 

done." 

Death's  carnival  followed.     O'er  field  and  o'er 

trench, 
In  billows  of  doom,  dashed  the  waves  of  the 

French ; 

As  firm  as  a  sea-battered  wall  stood  the  rank 
Of  that  fated  brigade, — not  an  English  heart 

shrank, — 

Together  they  perished,  but  "Wellington  won, 
He  found  them,  all  there  when  the  battle  was 

done. 

(69) 


"GAUN  IIAME." 

"Fareweel!"    she   said,   and   she   waved  her 

hand 

From  the  stately  ship,  as  it  left  the  land 
For  a  far-off  shore. 

"  Fareweel!"  said  she, 
"  I  am  gaun  awa'  to  my  ain  countree, 
Where  the  gowans  grow,  and  my  laddie  lies 
Cauld  in  his  grave,  where  the  Ochils  rise, — 
To  the  land  o'  the  leal,  where  my  mither  dear, 
Has  slumbered  for  mony  a  lang,  lang  year. 
Ghaist-like,  I've  wandered  the  warld  sae  wide, 
A  wae-worn  lassie — an  unlo'ed  bride, — 
An'  now,  as  the  simmer  grows  sad  and  sere, 
An'  iny  days  draw  donn  to  the  last  dim  year, 
I  am  driftin'  awa'  frae  a  frien'less  shore, 
To  the  hame  o'  the  happy,  ance  more,  ance 

more." 

******* 
The  ship  went  down  in  the  roaring  sea, 
But  the  lady — she  reached  her  "ain  countree." 

(70) 


A  BALLAD  OF  TEAES. 


"  The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall," 

Low  moaned  a  mother,  as  she  kept 
A  nightly  vigil  over  all 

Her  household  idols,  as  they  slept; 
The  storm  came  down  against  the  pane. 

She  heard,  far  off,  strange  voices  call, 
As  still  she  sobbed,  in  drear  refrain, 

"The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall." 


II 

"  The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall," 

Sighed  one — an  aged  man —  who  stood 
Beside  a  tablet,  gray  and  tall, 

Far  in  a  churchyard's  solitude; 
The  past  burned  back  upon  his  brain, 

"With  dreams  of  bliss  beyond  recall, — 
Poor  soul!  he  whispered  thro'  his  pain, 

"  The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall." 

(71) 


72  A  BALLAD  OF  TEARS. 

Ill 

"  The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall," 

A  hungry,  houseless  exile  wailed, 
As  o'er  him,  from  a  festal-hall, 

The  lights  of  joy  and  splendor  trailed, 
lie  wept, — his  weeping  was  in  vain, 

For  death  itself  could  not  forestall 
The  anguish  of  his  cold  refrain, 

"  The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall." 

IV 

"  The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall," 

A  lone  girl  sang,  and  singing,  heard 
The  waves  beat  on  the  dim  sea-wall, 

In  mournful  melody  and  weird; 
The  night  caught  up  the  plaintive  strain, 

As,  folding  round  her,  like  a  pall, 
It  rustled  to  the  dull  refrain, 

"  The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall." 


JULY  IN   THE  WEST. 

DAY. 

A  rhythm  of  reapers ;  a  flashing 
Of  steels  in  the  meadows;  a  lashing 
Of  sheaves  in  the  wheatlands;  a  glitter 
Of  grain-builded  streets,  and  a  twitter 
Of  birds  in  a  motionless  sky, — 
And  that  is  July ! 

A  rustle  of  corn-leaves ;  a  tinkle 
Of  bells  on  the  hills;  a  twinkle 
Of  sheep  in  the  lowlands;  a  bevy 
Of  bees  where  the  clover  is  heavy ; 
A  butterfly  blundering  by, — 
And  that  is  July ! 

NIGHT. 

A  moon-flood  prairie;  a  straying 
Of  light-hearted  lovers;  a  baying 
Of  far-away  watch  dogs;  a  dreaming 
Of  brown-fisted  farmers ;  a  gleaming 
Of  fire-flies  eddying  nigh, — 
And  that  is  July ! 

(73) 


74  JULY  IN  THE  WEST. 

A  babble  of  brooks  that  deliver 
Their  flower-purfled  waves  to  the  river; 
A  moan  in  the  marshes ;  in  thickets, 
A  dolorous  droning  of  crickets, 

Attuned  to  a  whippoorwill's  cry, — 
And  that  is  July! 


ILLINOIS. 

I  sing  not  of  the  summer-lands, 
That  lie  beyond  the  rolling  seas — 
Nor  of  the  famed  Ilesperides, 

Nor  any  tropic  isles  nor  strands. 

I  sing  a  land  of  peace  and  light, 
Of  labor,  love  and  liberty — 
A  land  wherein  the  prophets  see 

The  dawn  of  progress  infinite. 

No  dreaming  poet  ever  drew 
Upon  the  tablet  of  his  thought, 
A  land  with  fairer  promise  fraught, 

Than  this  that  opens  on  my  view. 

The  maiden  empire  of  the  "West, 

Gold-sheened,   gold-sandalled,  and  gold- 
crowned, 

Her  brows  with  yellow  harvests  bound, 
Her  ample  bosom  blossom-drest. 

Here  rhythmic  rivers  flash  and  flow, 
Thro'  meadows  measureless,  and  here, 

(75) 


76  ILLINOIS. 

On  banks  of  roses,  cities  rear 
Their  temples  in  the  sunset's  glow. 

Here  birds  of  every  tongue  and  tinge 
Fly  up  and  down  the  laughing  lands, 
From  Michigan's  surf -whitened  sands, 

To  where  Ohio's  floods  infringe. 

The  skies  of  Italy  are  ours, 

And  ours  the  Lydian  airs  that  blow 

So  lightly,  lullingly,  and  low, 

At  night-tide,  o'er  the  sleeping  flowers. 

No  ghostly  ruins  fret  the  wind, 

No  shattered  shrines,  no  toppling  towers, 
But,  ah!  this  peaceful  realm  embowers 

The  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind. 

Nor  is  the  soul  of  romance  flown, 
For  here  the  poet's  eye  can  trace 
The  vestige  of  a  vanished  race, 

In  field  and  forest,  stream  and  stone. 

And  here  a  grander  Rome  will  rise, 
A  Rome  without  a  slave  or  king, 
Round  which  a  nobler  race  will  spring, 

With  patriotic  souls  and  wise; — 


ILLINOIS.  77 

A  free-born  people,  proud  and  great, 
"With  heart  and  hand  to  do  and  dare, — 
"With  strength  to  fashion  firm  and  fair 

The  fabric  of  the  growing  State. 

And  Greece,  beneath  these  western  skies, 
"Will  leap  to  life  again,  and  breathe 
Her  spirit  into  stone,  and  wreathe 

The  land  with  deathless  melodies. 

I  trow  no  fancy  can  forecast 

The  fame,  the  splendor  yet  to  be 
Unscrolled  before  the  world,  when  we 

Are  drawn  into  the  dreamless  past. 


"THE  EYES  OF  ELEANOKA." 

I. 

As  the  light  of  a  star  is  found, 
By  day,  in  the  sunless  ground, 

Where  the  river  of  silence  lies, — 
So  the  spirit  of  beauty  dwells, 
O  love,  in  the  mimic  wells 

Of  thy  large,  thy  luminous  eyes. 

II 

As  out  of  a  turbulent  night, 
A  lost  bird  turns  to  the  light 

Of  a  desolate  dreamer's  room, — 
So,  forth  from  the  storm  of  thine  eyes, 
A  passionate  splendor  flies 

To  my  soul,  through  the  inter-gloom. 

Ill 

As  a  lily  quivers  and  gleams, 

All  night,  by  the  darkling  streams, 

That  dream  in  the  underlands, — 
So,  up  from  the  haunted  lakes 
Of  thy  shadowy  eyes,  Love  shakes 

The  snows  of  her  beck'ning  hands. 

(78) 

• 


"THE  EYES  OF  ELEANORA."  79 

IY 

As  clusters  of  new  worlds  dawn, 
When  the  infinite  night  comes  on, 

In  the  measureless,  moonless  skies — 
So  the  planet  of  love  burns  high, 
O  sweet,  when  the  day  sweeps  by, 

In  the  dusk  of  thy  orient  eyes. 


O,  BLEAK  IS  THE  NIGHT. 

(Song.} 
O  bleak  is  the  night 

That  is  shorn  of  its  stars, 
And  cold  is  the  heart 

That  is  chastened  with  scars; 
But  bleaker  and  colder 

Than  everything  yet, 
Is  the  love-plundered  bosom, 

That  cannot  forget. 

The  bright  crystal  dews 

That  o'er-sprinkle  the  lawn, 
Slip  back  into  mist 

At  the  touch  of  the  dawn, — 
But  the  lover  low-chained 

To  the  rack  of  regret, 
Must  languish  in  pain, 

For  he  cannot  forget. 

White  sails  of  the  ocean 
Grow  dingy  on  shore, 

But  brighten  again 

As  they  sweep  the  seas  o'er; 

(80) 


0,  BLEAK  IS  THE  NIGHT.  81 

Not  so  the  fond  eyes 

"With  love's  hopelessness  wet — 
The  heart  never  lightens 

That  cannot  forget. 

The  visions  of  terror 

That  haunt  us  by  night, 
Like  shadows  take  wing 

At  the  first  flush  of  light; 
But  the  breast  of  despair 

Still  in  anguish  must  fret, 
For  the  curse  is  upon  it — 

It  cannot  forget. 


THE  BUEDEN  OF  BABYLON. 

O  Babylon,  O  Babylon, 
The  Lord  hath  made.His  purpose  known; 
His  anger,  like  a  seething  sea, 
Swells  at  thy  gate, 
And  Sodom's  fate 
Alas,  proud  city,  is  reserved  for  thee. 

O  Babylon,  O  Babylon, 
Soon,  soon,  thy  glory  shall  be  gone; 
Beneath  thy  godless  roofs  shall  run 
E'en  the  warm  blood 
Of  motherhood,  [one ! 

And  none  escape  His  vengeance — nay,  not 

O  Babylon,  O  Babylon, 
Never  again  as  years  go  on, 
Shall  shepherds  fold  their  flocks  by  thee ; 
Nor  Arab  pitch 
His  tent,  nor  hitch 
His  camel  by  thy  cool  pomegranate  tree. 

O  Babylon,  O  Babylon, 
The  winds  shall  o'er  thy  ruins  moan; 
Within  thy  desolated  halls, 
Shall  flit  the  owl, 
And  wild  beasts  prowl, 
And  dancing  satyrs  hold  their  carnivals. 

(82) 


BEHIND  THE  VEIL. 

I 

As  a  painter  walked  forth  in  the  dawn,  half- 

adreara, 
He  saw  the  green  splendor  of  sumptuous 

trees 
Waving  under  the  winds,  and  his  eyes  drank 

the  gleam 

Of  the  blue  vagues  above  him  like  pendu 
lous  seas; 

The  world  was  a  picture,  so  fair  and  so  line, 
That  the  artist  beheld  it  with  marvelling 

eyes,— 

But  he  saw  not  the  hand  of  the  Painter  divine, 
"Who  stood  at  his  easel,  just  back  of  the 
skies. 

II 

A  sculptor  once  strolled  mid'  the  mountains, 

entranced, 

Untongued,    in   a    tremulous  transport   of 
Art, 

(83) 


84  BEHIND  THE  VEIL. 

As  he  scanned  the  grim  turrets  of  granite  that 

glanced 
On  the  rim  of  the  sun,  standing  stark  and 

apart ; 
His  soul  sipped  the  scene  till  it  reeled  with 

despair, 
Till  his  chisel  fell  dulled  on  the  stones  at 

his  feet, — 
But  he  saw  not  the  Sculptor,  half -hid   on  the 

stair, 

And  he  heard  not  the  mallet  of  God  as  it 
beat. 


Ill 


In  fancy,  I  saw  a  musician  enchained 

In  a  tangle  of  melodies,  tremblingly  twirled 
From  the  throats  of  the  throstles,  like  sym 
phonies  strained 

From  the  harps  of  old  minstrels,  and  blown 

down  the  world ; 
He  stood  in  the  dawning,  delirously  dazed, 

And  as  still  as  a  bronze, — but  he  saw  not  all, 
The  swinging  batoon  that  the  Master  upraised 

At  the  Fount  of  all  music,  just  over  the  wall. 


BEHIND  THE  VEIL.  85 

IV 

I  saw,  in  my  vision,  a  poet  who  wrote 

"With  a  pencil  of  light,  from  a  heart  that 

was  fraught 
"With  the  fervor  of  passion, — whose  soul  was 

afloat 

On  a  palpitant  ocean  of  fancy  and  thought ; 

His  lays  by  the  lips  of  all  lands  were  rehearsed, 

Till  they  set  the  slow  pulse  of  the  peoples 

a- quiver, — 

But  he  saw  not  the  face  of  the  Poet,  who  first 
Gave  the  song  to  the  sea,  and  the  rhyme  to 
the  river. 


DAY  AND  NIGHT. 
I 

When  drowsy  Day  draws  round  his  downy 

bed 

The  Tyrian  tapestries  of  gold  and  red, 
And,  weary  of  his  flight, 
Puts  out  the  palace  light, — 
'Tis  night! 

II 

When  languid  Night,  awakening  with  a  yawn, 
Leaps  down  the  moon-washed  stairway  of  the 

dawn, 

In  trailing  disarray, 
Sweeping  the  dews  away, — 
'Tis  day! 

(86) 


ONE  GOLDEN  HAIR. 

(Found  in  an  old  volume  of  Burns.} 

A  woman's  hair!  a  single  strand! 
And  yet  a  most  fantastic  thought 
Flashed  o'er  me,  as  my  fingers  caught 

And  drew  it  forth  across  my  hand. 

Like  to  some  living  thing  that  turns, 
Instinctive,  from  the  spoiler's  touch, 
The  hair  curled  upward  from  my  clutch, 

And  sought  again  the  page  of  Burns, — 

A  page  whereon  the  bard  had  told 
A  woman's  charms,  in  verse  divine: — 

"  Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o'  gold, 
Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipped  in  wine." 

A  woman's  hair !  a  single  shred ! 

A  golden  fibre  gently  torn 

From  some  proud  beauty  to  adorn 
The  book  of  love,  wherein  she  read, — 
"Wherein  she  caught  the  flash  and  fire 

Of  purest  passion  ever  given, 
To  sanctify  a  poet's  lyre, 

And  lure  a  panting  heart  to  heaven. 

(87) 


\  ONE  GOLDEN  HAIR. 

A  golden  hair!  a  slender  thing! 

A  soft  and  silken  coil!     And  yet, 

In  death,  it  still  would  pay  a  debt 
Of  love  unto  the  poet-king. 
This  single  hair — this  twining  hair, 

A  sweeter,  nobler  tribute  pays 
To  him  who  sang  beside  the  Ayr, 

Than  any  human  lip  can  phrase. 


IN  SUMMER  WOODS. 

How  sweet  amidst  the  melancholy  hills 
To  lie,  a  lazy  dreamer,  in  the  lap 
Of  flush  mid-summer,  drowsy  with  the  lull 
Of  lapping  waters  and  light  winds  that  pipe 
In  murmurous  monotones,  along  the  dim, 
Sun-litten  arcades  of  the  spectral  woods, — 
To  hear,  remotely,  in  the  lonesome  lands, 
The  drony  resonance  of  dreamy  bells, 
Where,  'mid  cool  shadows,  lurk  the  browsing 

herds, 

In  dimpled  hollows,  soft  with  summer  sward — 
To  list  the  sullen  rasp  of  insect  wings, 
And,  in  a  silken  indolence  of  soul, 
To  note  the  bluster  of  the  tippling  bee, 
Home-reeling  from  the  pillaged  palaces 
Of  Flora's  shining  empire. 

Every  tuft 

Is  populous  with  panting  life  and  toil — 
Each  tree  is  tremulous  with  melody, 
Each  dainty  leaf,  each  dewy  blade  of  grass, 
Stirs  into  music  at  the  gentlest  touch 
Of  every  passing  wind. 

Ye  who  would  hear 
The  primal  symphonies  by  Adam  heard, 

(89) 


90  IN  SUMMER  WOODS. 

Amid  the  velvet  vales  of  Paradise, 

Go  down,  go  down,  to  the  embowering  woods, 

Go  down  into  the  pulsing,  summer  woods, 

Forgetful  and  forgotten  of  the  world, 

And  in  a  rosy  rhapsody  of  rest, 

Throw  wide  the  spirit's  portals  to  the  fresh, 

Out-flowing  voices  of  the  universe, — 

The  voices  of  the  everlasting  hills, 

The  voices  of  the  rivers  and  the  rocks, 

The  rivulets,  the  rushes,  and  the  reeds, 

And  all  the  wizard -rhythm  of  the  shades. 

Let  the  light  spirit,  loosened  from  the  thrall 
Of  every-day  distraction,  wander  free, 
And  quaff  the  nectar  of  a  nobler  hope, 
The  sweeter  incense  of  a  higher  sphere, 
And,  on   the   star- crowned   summits  of   the 

mind, 
Model  ambitions  of  sublimer  mould. 


SEVERED  FRIENDSHIP. 

Shall  we  never  meet  again  ? 

Is  it  fated  that  we  twain 

Shall  know  no  more  the  clasping 
Of  each  other's  arms — the  grasping 

Of  each  other's  hands,  and  tingling 

Of  the  old-time's  intermingling? 

Is  it  written — is  it  known, 

In  the  doom -book  at  the  Throne, 

That  you  and  I,  forever, 

Shall  never,  never,  never, 
Be  united — be  twin-hearted, 
As  in  days  long  since  departed? 

JVIay  we  never  backward  creep, 
Thro'  the  shadows,  vague  and  deep, 
To  the  melancholy  borders 
Of  our  strifes  and  our  disorders, 
And  restore  the  fetters  golden 
Of  the  happy  days  and  olden  ? 

Is  it  fated  that  we  twain 

Must  forevermore  remain 
Asunder,  but  still  yearning 
For  a  love  that's  unreturning — 

For  a  friendship  rashly  riven, 

In  the  sight  of  Earth  and  Heaven? 

(91) 


MY  LADY  BEAUTIFUL. 

Could  I,  in  two  sweet  sonnets,  here  condense 
The  honied  praise  and  compliments  of  all 
The  poets  of  the  earth  since  Adam's  fall, — 
Or  conld  my  light-winged  fancy,  flying  thence, 
Beyond  the  girdling  barricades  of  sense, 
The  subtle  strength  of  future  song  forestall — 
"Were  such  my  gifts,  I'd  build  a  temple  tall 
Of  royal  homage,  walled  with  eloquence, 
Within  whose  purple  court,  upon  a  throne 

Of  silken  despotism,  I  would  place 
The  snowy  empress  of  my  soul's  desire; — 
Her  dynasty  should  be  my  heart,  alone, 

Her  passions  be  to  mine  as  food  and  fire, 
And  pasture  for  mine  eyes  her  body's  grace. 

And  twinkling  Cupids  nightly  to  her  sleep, 
In  clouds  of  riant  rivalry  would  throng, — 
And  in  the  meshes  of  her  ringlets  long, 
A  breathless  vigil  o'er  the  dreamer  keep; 
Nor  ever  should  a  tell-tale  teardrop  peep 
From  out  her   dewy   lids, — nor  from   her 

tongue 

Should  aught  escape  but  laughter  and  sweet 
song, 

(93) 


MY  LADY  BEAUTIFUL.  93 

And  discourse  dreamfully  devout  and  deep. 
No  pirate  winds — no  prowling  plagues  should 
creep, 

By   night    or    day,  within    her    wreathen 

shrine, — 
The  stairway  to  her  heart  should  be  so  steep, 

That  it  would  echo  to  no  tread  but  mine, — 
And  I,  through  all  the  dear  Idalian  days, 
Would  lull  the  princess  with  love's  roundelays. 


IN  SOUDAN. 

Ended  that  strange  career, 

Long  so  victorious, 
Slain  by  an  Arab's  spear, 

Gordon,  the  glorious; 
Stark  under  torrid  skies, 

Girdled  with  gloom, 
Britain's  best  soldier  lies 

Dead  in  Khartoum. 

Stewart  falls  bleeding,  and 

Earle  is  in  glory, — 
Steady,  now!  hand  to  hand, 

Sweep  all  before  ye! 
Close  up  the  shattered  square, 

Stand  fast,  who  can ! 
Strike  !  while  a  hope  is  there 

Left  in  Soudan. 

Mothers  of  England,  weep! 

Weep,  sons  and  daughters! 
"Weep  for  the  brave  who  sleep, 

Hard  by  Nile's  waters ! 
Weep  for  your  Burnaby 

Dead  in  the  van, — 
Weep  ye,  for  all  who  lie 

Cold  in  Soudan. 

(94) 


OUT  OK  THE  FARM. 

A  home  in  the  country !  what  care  I 

For  the  tossing  town,  with  its  madd'ning  din, 
"Where  the  grinding  wheels  of  the  world  go  by, 

And  the  soul  grows  sick,  as  the  crowds  crush 

in; 
Better  the  lanes  where  the  linnets  be, 

And  the  brown  bees  drone  in  the  dewy  thyme ; 
Where  the  wild  bird  flutes  on  the  tulip-tree, 

And  the  garnet  bells  of  the  pawpaws  chime. 

A  home  in  the  country !  Never  for  me 
The  flash  of  fashion,  and  feverish  beat 

Of  the  trampling  masses  my  sad  eyes  see 
Pulsing  forever  from  street  to  street; — 

Better  the  woods  where  the  waters  meet, 
And   the   grass  g^ows  cool  by  the  shelvy 
shore, — 

Where   the  wild-flowers  blush  in  their  dim 
retreat, 

And  the  clamor  of  town  is  heard  no  more. 

A  home  in  the  country,  blessed  and  sweet, 
From  the  hand  of  God,  where  the  shade  and 
shine 

(95) 


90  OUT  ON  THE  FARM. 

Play  all  day  long  in  the  rippling  wheat, 
And  the  berries  glow  in  the  grass,  like  wine; 

Never  a  home  in  the  town  be  mine, 

Mid'  the  stir  and  whir,  and  the  gaud  and 
glare,— 

Give  me  the  farm  where  the  clovered  kine 
Are  heard  on  the  hill, — and  the  world  is  fair. 


THE   OLD  FIREPLACE. 

The  blessed  old  fireplace !  how  bright  it  appears, 

As  back  to  my  boyhood  I  gaze, 
O'er  the  desolate  waste  of  the  vanishing  years, 

From  the  gloom  of  these  lone  latter- days; 
Its  lips  are  as  ruddy,  its  heart  is  as  warm 

To  my  fancy,  to-night,  as  of  yore, 
"When  we  cuddled  around  it,  and  smiled  at  the 
storm, 

As  it  showed  its  white  teeth  at  the  door. 

I   remember   the  apple   that  wooed  the  red 

flame, 

Till  the  blood  bubbled  out  of  its  cheek, — 
And  the  passionate  popcorn  that  smothered 

its  shame, 

Till  its  heart  split  apart  with  a  shriek ; 
I  remember  the  Greeks  and  the  Trojans  who 

fought, 

In  their  shadowy  shapes  on  the  wall, 
And  the  yarn,  in  thick  tangles,  my  fingers  held 

taut 
"While  my  mother  was  winding  the  ball. 

I  remember  the  cat  that  lay  cozy  and  curled 
By  the  jamb,  where  the  flame  flickered  high, 

1  (97) 


98  THE  OLD  FIREPLACE. 

And  the  sparkles, — the  fire-flies  of  winter, — 

that  whirled 

Up  the  flue,  as  the  wind  whistled  by ; 
I   remember   the    bald-headed,    bandy-legg'd 

tongs, 

That  frowned  like  a  fiend  in  my  face, 
In  a  fury  of  passion,  repeating  the  wrongs 
They  had  borne  in  the  old  fireplace. 

I  remember  the  steam  from  the  kettle  that 
breathed, 

As  soft  as  the  flight  of  a  soul, — 
The  long-handled  skillet  that  spluttered  and 
seethed 

With  the  batter  that  burthened  its  bowl ; 
I  remember  the  rusty,  identical  nail, 

Where  the  criminal  pot-hooks  were  hung, — 
The  dragon-faced  andirons,  the  old  cedar  pail, 

The  gourd,  and  the  peg  where  it  swung. 

But  the  fire  has  died  out  on  the  old  cabin 

hearth, 

The  wind  clatters  loud  thro'  the  pane, 
And  the  dwellers, — they're  flown  to  the  ends 

of  the  earth, 
And  will  gaze  on  it  never  again ; 


THE  OLD  FIRE-PLACE.  99 

A  forget-me-not  grows  in  the  mouldering  wall, 

The  last  as  it  were  of  its  race, 
And  the  shadows  of  night  settle  down  like  a 
pall, 

On  the  stones  of  the  old  fireplace. 


"  JOUKYDADDLES." 

O,  where  is  Joukydaddles, 

O,  where,  where,  where — 
The  little  chubby  codger 

That  was  toddlin'  here  and  there, 
With  the  jelly  on  his  chin, 

And  the  butter  on  his  cheeks, 
And  his  lubber  little  legs 

With  their  puddle-muck  streaks? 

O,  where  is  Joukydaddles, 

O,  where,  where,  where — 
With  the  bonnie  breezes  blowin' 

In  his  curly  brow-n  hair; 
The  little  busy-body 

In  his  berry-stained  shirt, 
A-dabblin'  with  his  wee, 

Tawny  fingers  in  the  dirt? 

O,  where  is  Joukydaddles, 
O,  where,  where,  where — 

Who  daily  used  to  tumble 
Down  the  old  cellar-stair; 

(100) 


"  JOUK  YD  ADDLES."  101 

The  burly  little  bandit, 
AVith  the  big  jewelled  eyes, — 

The  bloody  buccaneer 

'Mong  the  bugs  and  butterflies? 

O,  where  is  Joukydaddles, 

O,  where,  where,  where, — 
We  never  see  him  here, 

And  we  never  hear  him  there; 
There's  a  shadow  at  the  threshold, 

A  silence  on  the  floor, 
And  a  dusty  little  roundabout 

Is  danglin'  on  the  door; 
We  call — but  Joukydaddles 

Never  answers  any  more. 


LINES  TO  A  TERRAPIN. 

O,  terrapin,  terrapin,  whither  away, 

Thou  slow-moving,  evil-eyed  tramp; 
What  destiny  tempts   thee,   old   pilgrim,   to 

stray 

So  far  from  the  terrapin  camp? 
Why  prowl  at  my  garden,   thou  sauntering 

crust 

Of  inscrutable  cunning, — why  sneak 
And  recoil,  like  a  snake,  with  an  air  of  dis 
trust, 
When  a  gentleman  deigneth  to  speak? 

Thou  toothless,  old  triple-lashed  rover,  what 
news 

Bringest  thou  from  the  terrapin  isles, — 
And  what  of  thy  trip  thro'  the  dusks  and  the 
dews, 

O'er  the  pathless  and  perilous  miles? 
What  bloody  banditti  beleaguer  thy  way, 

And  where  does  thy  lone  journey  trend, — 
O,  prince  of  the  turtles,  make  answer,  I  pray, 

To  the  querulous  poet,  thy  friend ! 

(102) 


LINES  TO  A  TERRAPIN.  103 

Thou  Wandering  Jew  of  the  terrapin  race, 

What  marvelous  mysteries  lie 
Tormentingly  locked  in  thy  taciturn  face, 

And  forever  unsealed  in  thine  eye; 
For  thee  doth  some  terrapin  mistress  await 

In  her  portable  palace,  I  wot, — 
For  thee  sits  she  night  after  night  at  the  gate, 

And  sadly  complains  of  her  lot. 

O,  terrapin,  terrapin,  whither  away, 

Thro'  the  dews  and  the  dazzle  of  dawn? 
No  longer,  poor  gypsy,  thy  steps  I  will  stay, 

But  will  think  of  thee  often,  when  gone; 
Thy  road  is  as  rugged  no  doubt  as  my  own, 

Thy  heart  is  as  sunless  and  sore, — 
So  I  wish  thee  good-morning,  thou  terrapin 
lone, 

And  bid  thee  godspeed  from  my  door. 


A  PEOFILE  OF  FALL. 

Under  the  tree  the  ladder  leans 
On  the  branches  gray  and  old, — 

And,  balanced  above,  the  gleaner  gleans 
The  glittering  spheres  of  gold ; 

While  pyramids  brighter  than  maiden's  eyes, 

In  the  leafy  aisles  of  the  orchard  rise. 

Rambo,  Pippin,  and  Limbertwig, 
Belleflower,  Russet,  and  Romanite, 

Dangling  high  on  the  slender  sprig, 

Gleam  with  a  quivering  rainbow  light, — 

And  the  old  man  nodding  beneath  the  trees, 

Dreams  of  the  times  when  he  planted  these. 

When  a  blue-eyed  bride  was  at  his  side, 

In  the  merry  summer  weather, 
And  life  was  fair  as  the  apples  there, 

That  cling  to  the  bough  together; — 
But  a  score  of  springs  have  showered  their 

bloom 

Where  the  sunlight  lies  on  the  good  wife's 
torn  b. 

(104) 


A  PROFILE  OF  FALL.  105 

With  a  greedy  mouth  the  cider-mill 
Is  craunching  away  in  the  grove, — 

Its  lips  adrip  with  an  amber  rill 
As  pure  as  the  wine  of  Jove; 

And  the  bees  and  the   nut-brown   boys   are 
there, 

To  sip  the  sweets  and  the  sport  to  share. 

The  chestnut  brown  in  a  sheath  of  spears 

On  the  fading  hillside  lies, 
And  sleeps  till  the  sunlight  bursts  its  burrs 

And  shakes  the  night  from  its  eyes; 
And  the  walnut  cloaked  in  Lincoln-green, 
Dreams  of  a  winter  night,  I  ween. 

Up  in  the  old  oak's  airy  hall, 

The  squirrel  heaps  his  store, 
In  spite  of  the  deadly  rifle-ball 

That  rings  at  his  chamber  door, — 
A  merry  fellow  and  full  of  glee, 
Is  the  fur-clad  knight  of  the  hollow  tree. 

All  day  long  in  his  lampless  log, 

The  lonesome  rabbit  lies, 
Peeking  at  every  passing  dog 

With  big  sardonic  eyes, — 


106  A  PROFILE  OF  FALL. 

And  wondering  to  himself,  no  doubt, 
If  ever  the  dog  will  find  him  out. 

The  feathered  bards  have  sheathed  their  quills, 

And  closed  each  tuneful  mouth, 
And  flown  like  sunshine  out  of  the  hills 

To  summer  lands  of  the  South ; 
And  we  who  sit  in  the  shade  and  write, 
Sigh  to  them  all,  as  they  wing  their  flight. 


A  VALENTINE. 

Tho'  hill  and  vale  with  music  ring, 
And  mating  birds  be  on  the  wing, 
To-day  I  have  no  heart  to  sing, — 
My  Margerie  no  longer  hears, 
She  smiles  not  now,  nor  heeds  my  tears, 
She  wakes  not  with  the  waking  spring, 
She  comes  not  with  returning  years. 

As  sink  the  snow-flakes  in  the  sea, 

Loved  Margerie,  lost  Margerie, 

My  thoughts  concenter  all  in  thee; 
To-day  the  softest,  subtlest  note 
That  trembles  from  the  throstle's  throat, 

Stirs  not  the  slightest  pulse  in  me, — 
My  dreams  are  of  a  day  remote. 

The  lute  lies  silent  on  my  knee, 
I  touch  no  more  the  trembling  key, 
That  thrilled  the  heart  of  Margerie; 

Those  eyes  where  truth  and  passion  met, 
Love's  planets,  in  the  grave  have  set, 
And  left  this  heritage  to  me, 
A  memory — a  fond  regret. 

(107) 


'TIS  ALWAYS   SUNDAY   IN   THE 
WOODS. 

"  'Tis  always  Sunday  in  tlie  woods," 

She  said — the  bonnie  wife  of  mine — 
As  thro'  the  leaf -walled  solitudes, 

We  passed  beneath  the  arching  vine; 
We  saw  the  sunbeams  slant  and  shine, 

Like  tongues  of  flame  at  Pentecost, — 
We  sipped  the  sacramental  wine, 

From  many  a  chalice  gold-emboss'd. 

Outlined  against  the  templed  hills, 

The  living  symbols  of  the  Lord, 
We  saw, — and  down  a  thousand  rills 

The  praises  of  His  name  were  poured ; 
Above  us  mighty  organs  roared, 

And  hidden  pipers  blew  and  blew 
Such  strains  of  heavenly  accord, 

As  never  art  attaineth  to. 

The  aisles  wrere  carpeted  with  flowers, 

The  pews  with  emerald  were  plushed, 
And  from  a  hundred  wreathen  towers, 

The  silver  chimes  of  morning  gushed ; 
(ios; 


'TIS  ALWAYS  SUNDAY.  109 

Anon,  and  all  the  space  was  hushed, 
As  when,  within  cathedrals  dim, 

The  body  of  the  Christ  is  crushed, 

And  Christians  quaff  the  blood  of  Him. 

'Tis  always  Sunday  in  the  woods! 

The  cattle  down  the  valley  pass, 
In  lazy-moving  multitudes, 

To  where  the  river  gleams  like  glass ; 
The  birds,  in  one  symphonic  mass 

Of  benedictions,  flood  the  airs, 
And  all  the  insect-haunted  grass 

Is  sibilant  with  whispered  prayers. 

Around  the  rock-built  altars  crowd 

The  patient  oaks,  as  prone  to  pour 
Their  preans  to  the  bannered  cloud 

In  golden  glory  float  ing  o'er; 
Green-robed,  they  stand  forevermore, 

Within  their  dreamy  vastitudes, 
Devout  as  Druids  to  the  core — 

'Tis  always  Sunday  in  the  woods. 


FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

We  shall  meet,  we  shall  greet, 

"Where  the  bright  lights  quiver 
Over  yonder,  on  the  heights 

Of  the  interflowing  river, — 
Over  yonder  where  the  moon 

"With  the  shepherd-boy  dallies, 
And  the  goat-foot  Pan 

Goes  piping  down  the  valleys, — 
We  shall  meet,  we  shall  greet, 

Where  the  warm  sky  showers 
The  pearls  of  the  planets 

On  the  fountains  and  the  flowers,- 
Where  the  summer  lies  asleep 

On  the  wings  of  the  swallows, 
And  the  nightingale  sings 

In  the  dream-haunted  hollows; 
We  shall  meet,  over  there, 

On  the  sunny  hills  seven, 
In  the  Rome  of  the  soul, 

In  the  Italy  of  Heaven. 

(110) 


WHEN  YOUR  FATHER  WENT  TO 
WAR. 

I. 

When  your  father  went  to  war,  Jennie,  you 

were  but  a  child, 
A  romping  little  rowdy,  running  riotous  and 

wild 

In  the  maple-shaded  pasture,  where  our  cot 
tage  used  to  stand, 
And  we  owned  a  timbered  forty  of  the  richest 

river  land, — 
Yes,  owned  it — every  inch  of  it — by  labor's 

hard  decree, 
And  none  we  thought,  in   all  the  world  were 

happier  than  we. 
Our  cattle  browsed  the  summer  hills,  amid 

the  blue-grass  deep, 
And  all  the  shady  bottom-lands  were  snowy 

with  our  sheep; 
'Twas  like  a  tale  of  fairy  lore,  the  life  that  we 

lived  then, 

cm) 


112  WHEN  TOUR  FATHER  WENT  TO  WAR. 

When  I  was  barely  twenty-six,  and  you  were 

only  ten; 
Love  brought  us  peace  and  comfort,  till  there 

rose  an  evil  star, 
In   the   summertime   of    plenty,   when  your 

father  went  to  war. 


II. 

Ah,  Jennie,  I  remember  well  the  day, — 'twas 

late  in  June, 
Your  father  he  came  riding  home  from  town 

one  afternoon, 
And   his   face  was  pale  and   haggard  as   he 

reached  the  door,  and  threw 
One  arm  around  me,  daughter,  while  he  laid 

one  hand  on  you ; 
And  as  my  senses  faltered,  and  I  reeled  in  his 

embrace, 
I  read  the  fearful  meaning  that  was  written  in 

his  face, — 
I  felt   it   in  the   bounding   blood   that   beat 

against  my  breast, 
I  needed  not  a  spoken  word, — too  well  I  knew 

the  rest; 


WHEN  YOUR  FATHER  WENT  TO  WAR.  113 

And  all  that  night  in  dreams  I  heard  the 
tramp  of  marching  feet, 

And  far  away  I  saw  the  flags  grow  dimmer 
down  the  street; 

'Twas  long  ago !  but  O,  m y  heart  has  not  out 
grown  the  scar 

God's  finger  put  upon  it,  when  your  father 
went  to  war. 


III. 

Then  you  and  I  were  left  alone.      We  tried  a 

year  or  so, 
By  hiring  help,  to  scrimp  along,  but  couldn't 

make  it  go ; 
The   Spring-floods  swept  away  the  corn,  the 

drouth  of  Summer  dried 
The  grasses  on  the  uplands,  and  we  had  no 

crops  beside; 
So  we  parted  with  the  cattle  that  we  could  na 

longer  keep, 
We  sold  the  only  team  we  had,  and  traded  off 

the  sheep; 
And  when  the  winds  of  Autumn   shook  the 

pipes  about  the  eaves, 


114  WHEN  TOUR  FATHER  WE  NT  TO  WAR. 

And  in  the  woodland  hollows  piled  the  brown 

October  leaves, 
When  the  hazel-nuts  were  ripening  in  the  old 

familiar  copse, 
And  the  wild  geese  wedging   southward,  far 

above  the  maple-tops, 
"We  locked  the  dear  old  farm-house  up,  and 

closed  the  pasture  bar, 
And  moved  into  the  village,  when  your  father 

went  to  war. 


IV. 

Then  Winter  came — a  dreary   time — a   night 

of  hopes  and  fears, 
On  every  hand  the  widows  wept,  and  fell  the 

mothers'  tears — 
A  reign  of  blood  and  ruin!    Every   clay  some 

passing  train 
Brought  back  a  load  of  mangled  men — brought 

back  the  coffined  slain ; 
And  Jennie,   O,   my  Jennie,  ere  the  snows  of 

Winter  passed, 
They  bore  your  father    back    to    us, — they 

brought  him  home  at  last; 


WHEN  TOUR  FATHER  WENT  TO  WAR.  115 

They  sent  him  from  the  frozen  hills,  beside 

the  Tennessee, 
Borne   down   amidst   the   battle,  where  the 

bravest  love  to  be; 
They   sent  him  back  a  ruined  man  for  life, 

alas,  my  child! 
I  turned  away  in  agony,  I  raved  as  one  grown 

wild. 
But  why  recall   the   story  now?     The  years 

have  drifted  far, 
And   we've  got   used  to  trouble,   since  your 

father  went  to  war. 


V. 

The   times    have    changed.     We,    too,  have 

changed.  To-night  the  blue  and  gray 
Sit  round  their  fires  with  lighted  pipes,  and 

puff  their  hates  away, — 
Sit  spinning  yarns  about  their  camps,  until 

the  drowsy  stars 
Put  out  their  light  and  wave  "  good  night " 

across  the  twilight's  bars. 
Although  my  heart  be  broken,  and  although 

my  hair  be  white, 


116  WHEN  YOUR  FATHER  WENT  TO  WAR. 

And  'though  the  years  have  brought  me  but 
disaster  in  their  flight, 

I  am  wicked  in  my  weakness,  I  am  cruel  to 
complain, 

When  yonder  patient  sufferer  sits  smiling  at 
his  pain, — 

Sits  crooning  in  the  Autumn  moon  the  bal 
lads  made  to  praise 

The  luster  of  his  daring  in  the  old  heroic 
days,— 

Sits  dreaming,  Jennie,  dreaming,  of  the  battle 
fields  that  are 

The  glory  of  the  ages,  since  your  father  went 
to  war. 


VI. 

A  little  while — it  won't  be  long,  until  the  sol 
diers  come 

And  bear  away  their  comrade  to  the  dead- 
march  of  a  drum, 

To  the  green  hills  over  yonder,  where  eternal 
tents  are  spread, 

And  no  pensions  are  rejected  in  the  domains 
of  the  dead ; 


WHEN  TOUR  FATHER  WE  NT  TO  WAR.  117 

"Where  justice  is  no  jester,  and  where  glory 

countersigns 
The  muster-rolls  of   freedom  as  the   century 

declines; 
Yes,  child,  to  that  Republic  where  no  partisan 

is  found, 

Where  the  private  is  promoted  and  the  poten 
tate  discrowned, 
Our  loved  one  now  is  journeying;  and  as  for 

you  and  me, 
It  matters  not, — the  pottersfield  our  heritage 

may  be; 
The  future  frowns  and  threatens,  but  thank 

God  it  cannot  mar 
The  glory  that  we  garnered  when  your  father 

went  to  war. 


AN  INVOCATION. 

Spirit  of  Mercy !  draw  near  me,  draw  near  me, 
Lean  to  me  lovingly,  comfort,  and  cheer  me,- 
Ilope  have  I  none,  if  thou  deign  not  to  hear 
rne. 

Spirit  of  Mercy!  encompass  me,  bless  me, 
Close  to  thy  bosom  warm,  clasp  me,  and  press 

me, 
Clothe  me  with  meekness — of  sin  dispossess 

me. 

Spirit  of  Mercy!  I  reach  to  thee,  cling  to  thee, 
All  my  transgressions  I  prayerfully  bring  to 

thee; — 
Humbly  my  hands,  in  my  weakness,  I  wring 

to  thee. 

Spirit  of  Mercy!  uplift  and  upload  me, 
Tip-tear  from  my  pathway  the  snares  that  im 
pede  me, 
Sustain  and  support  me,  whenever  the  need  be. 

(118) 


AN  INVOCATION.  119 

Spirit  of  Mercy !  of  doubt  disarray  me, 
Dismantle  my  life  of  the  lusts  that  dismay  me, 
And   strengthen   my  soul,  when  temptations 
waylay  me. 

Spirit  of  Mercy !  be  nigh  to  me  ever, 
Assist  me — inspire  me  to  higher  endeavor — 
Forsake  me,  and   frown  on  me,  never — Oh 
never ! 

Spirit  of  Mercy !  I  kneel  to  thee,  kneel  to  thee, 
Trusting  thro'  darkness  and  discord,  my  weal 

to  thee,— 
Queen  of  the  Angels!  thy  sweetness  unseal  to 

me. 


A  BALLADE  OF  BUSY  DOCTOES. 

When  winter  pipes  in  the  poplar-tree, 

And   soles   are   shod   with  the    snow   and 

sleet — 
When  sick-room  doors  close  noiselessly, 

And  doctors  hurry  along  the  street; 
When   the  bleak  north  winds  at  the  gables 
beat, 

And  the  flaky  noon  of  the  night  is  nigh, 
And  the  reveler's  laugh  grows  obsolete, 

Then  Death,  white  Death,  is  a-driving  by. 

When  the  cowering  sinner  crooks  his  knee, 

At  the  cradle-side,  in  suppliance  sweet, 
And  friends  converse  in  a  minor  key, 

And  doctors  hurry  along  the  street; 
When  Croesus  flies  to  his  country  seat, 

And  castaways  in  the  garrets  cry, 
And  in  each  house  is  a  "  shape  and  a  sheet," 

Then  Death,  white  Death,  is  a-driving  by. 

(120) 


A  BALLADE.  121 

When  the   blast   of  the   autumn   blinds  the 

bee, 
And   the   long    rains   fall   on   the    ruined 

wheat, 
When  a  glimmer  of  green  on  the  pools  we 

see, 

And  doctors  hurry  along  the  street; 
When  every  fellow  we  chance  to  meet 
Has  a  fulvous  glitter  in  either  eye, 
And  a  weary  wobble  in  both  his  feet, 

Then  Death,  white  Death,  is  a-driving  by. 

Envoy. 

When  farmers  ride  at  a  furious  heat, 
And  doctors  hurry  along  the  street, 

With  brave  hearts  under  a  scowling  sky, 
Then  Death,  white  Death,  is  a-driving  by. 


GOOD-NIGHT,    AND   JOY   BE  WITH 
YOU  ALL. 

The  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  blows  west, 

The  last  dead  leaf  is  on  the  tree, — 
Farewell  the  merry  wine  and  jest, 

And  all  good  fellows  dear  tome; 
Those  raptur'd  hours  with  feathered  feet, 

My  aching  heart  would  fain  recall, — 
But,  ah!  'tis  ours  no  more  to  meet, 

Good-night,  and  joy  be  with  you  all 

The  weary  world  spins  'round  and  'round, 

And  friends  must  part  as  friends  have  met; 
There  is  no  spot  of  hallowed  ground, 

If  not  where  friendship's  board  is  set; 
The  wind  blows  west,  the  wind  blows  east, 

Our  last  bright  cup  is  mixed  writh  gall, — 
A  death-head  glimmers  at  the  feast, 

Good-night,  and  joy  be  with  you  all. 

To-morrow  comes,  to-morrow  goes, 

But  yesterday  returns  no  more; 
"We  meet  with  these,  we  part  with  those, 

And  eyes   are  dim,  and  hearts  are  sore; 

(122) 


GOOD-NIGHT  AND  JOT.  123 


A  blinding  mist  obscures  my  sight, 
My  senses  with  their  burden  pall, — 

Time  halts  not  in  his  rapid  flight, 
Good-night,  and  joy  be  with  you  all. 


SHAKESPEAKE. 

His  soul  was  like  a  palace  wrought  of  glass, 
Star-stained    and    many-sided,    and    full- 
fraught 
"With    all    the    fairest  flowers  of    human 

thought, 

Outspread  in  one  immeasurable  mass, — 
A  garden  of  enravishments,  where  pass 
The  rapt  creations   that  his  fancy  caught 
From  realms  of  being  hitherto  unsought, 
Or  feebly  sought,  or  fruitlessly,  alas! 
lie  peered  through  nature  with  a  prophet's 

ken, 

lie  pierced  her  secrets  with  a  poet's  eye, — 
"With  passion,  power,  and  high  philosophy, 

lie  set  the  spirit's  inner  gates  apart; 
He   stripped  the  shackles   from  the   souls  of 

men, 

And   sacked  the   fortress  of   the  human 
heart. 

(134) 


SHAKESPEARE.  125 

The  perfect  model  of  the  perfect  mind ! 

Within  the  spheric  fullness  of  his  sense, 

Within  his  kingly  soul's  circumference, 
The  image  of  the  universe  was  shrined; 
In  lofty  utterance  his  tongue  outlined 

The  golden  orb  of  all  intelligence; 

lie  touched  the  circle  of  omnipotence, 
Denning  things  no  other  ere  defined. 
God  made  but  one!  the  rack  of  centuries, 

The  rolling  chariot  of  resistless  years, 

Leaves  imbed immed  the  amaranth  he  wears, 
His  fame  is  co-eternal  with  the  skies, 
His  words  are  fadeless  as  our  memories, 

His  influence  as  deathless  as  our  tears. 


THE  SOLDIER  OF  CASTILE. 

I 

It  was  afternoon  in  Madrid,  during  Isabella's 

reign, 
When  Ristori    was    playing  in  the  capital  of 

Spain, 
That  Nicholas    Chapado,  a  Castilian  soldier, 

lay 
Within  a  dungeon  doomed  to  die,  at  breaking 

of  the  day; — 
A  beardless  boy  and  beautiful,  with  gentle 

voice  and  eye, 
For  some  offence  of  disci pline,  a  felon's  death 

must  die; 
No      pleading     sister's     upturned     face — no 

mother's  fond  appeal, 
No    sweetheart's   eloquence    could    save  the 

soldier  of  Castile, — 
And  so  a  black-robed  bellman,  as  the  custom 

was,  went  down 
Collecting  alms  in  all  the  streets  and  by-ways 

of  the  town, 

(126) 


THE  SOLDIER  OF  CASTILE.  127 

Collecting  alms  to  pay  the   priest  to  lift   his 

voice  on  high, 
In  supplication  for  the  soul  of  him  who   had 

to  die. 


II 


The  great   Italian    actress,    standing   at   her 

window  high, 
Saw  the   ghostly   bellman   ringing,   and   she 

turned  and  questioned  "  Why  ?" 
And  when  a  Spanish  cavalier  responded  with 

the  tale, 
The    listening    woman    shuddered,   and   her 

cheeks  grew  chill  and  pale, 
Then,  turning  from  the  casement,  where  the 

sunlight  softly  fell, 
She  saw  no  more  the  bellman,  and  she   heard 

no  more  the  bell; 
She  only  saw  in  fancy  from  a  dungeon   bare 

and  gray, 
A  lad  led  forth  to  slaughter,  at  the  breaking 

of  the  day — 
A  brave  boy  rudely  ushered  from  a  prison's 

rime  and  rot, 


128  THE  SOLDIER  OF  CASTILE. 

To  the  sunshine  of  the  city,  for  an  instant,  to 

be  shot; 
And  her  great  heart  sank  within  her,  and  her 

soul  in  sobs  escaped, 
As  she  thought — the  mimic   empress — of  the 

tragedies  she  aped. 


Ill 


And   now   'twas   night   in   Madrid,  and  the 

Zarzuela  shone 
With  oriental  opulence,  and   splendor   all  its 

own ; 
The   bended  balconies   above,   blazed   like   a 

triple  chain, 
That  belted  in  the  beauty  and  the  chivalry  of 

Spain ; 
Proud  Isabella  from  her  box  looked  out  with 

haughty  grace, 
While  the   passions  of  a  race   of  kings   were 

pulsing  in  her  face; 
Anon,  amidst  a  clash  of  bells,  and  'midst  the 

crowd's  acclaim, 

The  pale  Italian   sorceress   before  the  foot 
lights  came; 


THE  SOLDIER  OF  CASTILE.  129 

A  glory   fell   about   her,  as  her  tragic   spirit 

played 
On  the  passions  of   the   Spaniards,  in   their 

royal  pomp  arrayed; 
She  tranced  them   with   her  tenderness — she 

touched  them  as  with  steel — 
She  broke  a  pathway  to  the  coldest  heart  in 

old  Castile. 

IV. 

'Twas  midnight,  and  the  play  was  done — the 

closing  curtain  fell, 
And    Eistori    was    kneeling   at   the   feet   of 

Isabelle  — 
Lo !  the  mimic  queen   was  pleading   with  an 

eloquence  unknown, 
For  Nicholas  Chapado,  to  the  queen  upon  the 

throne ; 
All  motionless  and  silent  stood   the   swarthy 

cavaliers, 
Their  bosoms  wrung  with  pity,  as  they  leaned 

upon  their  spears; 
'Twas    the   picture    of    a  passion — 'twas    a 

priestess  of  her  art, 


180  THE  SOLDIER  OF  CASTILE. 

At    the   feet   of   Mercy   kneeling,   with   her 

pleading  lips  apart; 
'Twas     a    woman's    heart     appealing — 'twas 

resistless  as  the  seas, 
Or  the  rushing  North  that  hurtles   down  the 

snowy  Pyrenees; 
The  haughty  Queen  was  conquered — and  that 

night  the  links  of  steel 
Fell,  broken  at  her  bidding,  from  the   soldier 

of  Castile. 


HER  FEET  ON  THE  FENDER. 
I. 

The   winter    blew    chill,    but    the    night    it 

was  white 
As  the  satiny   sheen    of   the   hand    that    I 

crushed, 
As  we  sat  where  the  bright  chandelier  shed  its 

light 
On    her    billowy    curtains     and     ottoman 

plushed ; 

It  was  middle  December  outside,  but  I  swear, 
I  could  hear  the  birds   sing,  and  could  feel 

the  Spring's  splendor 

Blown  into  my  blood,  from  her  tropical  hair, 
As  she  teetered  her  tender  white  feet  on  the 
fender. 

II. 

We  are  wed, — and  the  days  they  have  sped 

overhead 

Like  the  half-finished  dreams   of  a  lover, 
who  lies 

(131) 


132          HER  FEET  ON  THE  FENDER. 

In  the  cool  summer  night,  when  the  planets 

burn  red 

Thro'  the  lattice  that  shadows  his  slumber- 
less  eyes; — 

It  is  middle  December, — the  chandelier  glows? 
And  I  fall  to  the  floor  in  most  servile  sur 
render, — 

And  sJiel — "Well,  I  tickle  her  baby's  pink  toes, 
As  she  smilingly  sews,  with  her  feet  on  the 
fender. 


THE  OLD  VILLAGE  DEPOT. 

There  stands  the  old  station-house,  out  in  the 

rain, 

A  stone's  throw  away  from  my  door, 
With  its  wind-shaken  wall,  and  its  weather- 
racked  pane, 

And  its  rickety,  rat-haunted  floor; 
Its   sashes  are   seamed,    and    its   lintels   are 

gashed, 

"With  the  jack-knives  of  twenty  long  years ; 
And  the  eaves,  where  the  wings  of  the  swal 
lows  once  flashed, 
Seem  touched  with  a  kinship  of  tears. 

Old  house!  it  looms  up  like  a  ghost  in  the 

gale, 

And  gibbers  and  groans  in  the  blast, 
And  speaks  with  a  weird  and  a  weariless  wail, 

Of  the  dim,  irretrievable  past; 
On   the   old   dingy   platform    that  girdles  it 

'round, 
The  wealth  of  the  prairie  once  poured, 

(133) 


134  TUB  OLD  VILLAGE  DEPOT. 

And   daily   the  carriage  of   commerce  came 

down 
With  the  wares  of  the  stranger  aboard. 

'Twas  here,  when  our  brothers  went  off  to  the 

wars, 

"We  blessed  them  and  bade  them  adien ; 
And  we  welcomed  them,  here,  'neath  a  banner 

of  stars, 

When  the  terrible  conflict  was  through; 
And  here  where  the  bare-footed  boys  are  at 

play, 

The  war  trumpets  thundered  of  yore, — 
And  here  came  the  coffins  in  ghastly  array, 
Of  the  dear  soldier-dead  to  our  door. 


'Twas  here  the  young  bride  in  her  beauty  and 

bloom, 

To  her  cheek  felt  the  parting  kiss  press'd, 
And  here  beat  with  rapture  the  heart  of  the 

groom, 

As  he  cradled  her  form  on  his  breast; 
And  here  in  his  squalor  the  beggar  has  crept, 
To  shelter  hinuelf  from  the  blast, 


THE  OLD  VILLAGE  DEPOT.  135 

In  the  merciless  midnight,  and  dreamed  as  he 

slept, 
Of  the  happier  days  of  the  past. 

And  here  came  the  message  more  fleet  than 

the  dove, 

O'er  the  wavering,  wandering  wire, 
That  filled  us  with  grief,  or  that  thrilled  us 

with  love, 

As  we  peacefully  sat  by  the  fire ; 
Ah,  the  old   station-house!  it  will  soon  tum 
ble  down, 

Its  timbers  are  crumbling  away; 
But   its   record   is  writ  on  tha  heart  of  the 

town, 
And  its  glory  abideth  for  aye. 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Upon  the  bleak  November  hills 
A  solitary  bluebird  trills 
His  latest  song, — and  far  along 
The  russet  upland  loudly  rings 
The  lay  the  sturdy  woodman  sings. 

Beyond  the  pasture's  hazel  edge, 
From  out  the  hollow's  tangled  sedge, 
The  quail  upsprings,  on   whirring  wings, 
And  down  the  stubble  flutters  fast, 
Before  the  hunter's  heartless  blast. 

From  out  a  moss-grown  sugar-trough, 
A  lonesome  rabbit  gallops  off 
Across  the  woods  and  solitudes, 
That  rustle  to  the  slightest  stir 
Of  dropping  leaf  and  acorn-burr. 

In  lazy  aldermanic  guise 
The  yellow-breasted  pawpaw  lies, 
So  snugly  hid  the  leaves  amid, 
That  scarce  a  schoolboy's  eager  eye 
Can  find  it  as  he  saunters  by. 

(136) 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  137 

In  lines  that  waver  and  converge, 
The  puzzled  wild-ducks  southward  surge 
The  live-long  day, — while  far  away, 
A  circling  hawk  is  seen  to  swim 
Along  the  twilight's  amber  rim. 

The  blue-jays  on  the  windy  oak 
Hold  joyless  jabber  thro'  the  smoke 
Of  these  dim  days; — while  faintly  strays 
From  orchard  haunts,  and  leafless  groves, 
The  murmur  of  the  patient  doves. 

Beyond  the  river's  fringe  of  mist 
The  wild  vines  climb  and  intertwist 
Their    amorous   shoots,   rich  hung  with 

fruits 

That  froth  with  wine  so  ripe  and  fair 
The  fairies  fill  their  flagons  there. 

"Within  the  forest  brown  and  seared, 
To-day  no  harsher  sound  is  heard 
Than  lisps  of  rills,  and  timorous  trills 
Of  birds  that  seek  a  shelter  from 
The  surly  winter  soon  to  come. 


138  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

It  were  as  if  some  sudden  shock 

Had    stopped    the    wheels   of  Nature's 

clock 

An  instant,  ere  the  flying  year 
Sent  forth  his  trumpeters  to  blow 
The  signals  of  approaching  snow. 

O  glorious  Indian  Summer  time! 
Where  is  the  country,  where  the  clime, 
To  match  with  this?  O,  land  of  bliss, — 
O,  land  of  love,  and  light  and  flowers ! 
God  made  it  last,  and  made  it  ours. 


LADY  LAURA  IN  THE  NORTH. 


Lady  Laura,  in  the  North, 

Leaning  at  her  lattice  high, 
Lingeringly  looking  forth, 

Saw  the  wild  swan  southward  fly, — 
Heard  afar  the  clanging  cranes, 

Sweeping  from  the  fields  of  snow, 
To  the  sun-lit,  summer  plains, 

Where  the  warm  magnolias  blow. 

II 

Lady  Laura,  looking  south, 

Trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf, 
While  around  her  perfect  mouth, 

Crept  the  early  curves  of  grief ; 
All  her  life  seemed  but  a  ring 

Of  remembrance,  and  regret, 
As  she  stood  there  quivering 

Like  a  wind-swayed  violet. 

(139) 


140         LADY  LAURA  IN  TUB  NORTH. 
Ill 

Lady  Laura,  lily-tall, 

Standing  at  her  casement  high, 
Saw  the  evening  shadows  fall, 

Saw  the  wild-birds  homeward  fly  ;- 
But  she  spake  not  any  word, 

Staring  hard  against  the  sky, — 
Never  any  sound  she  heard 

Of  the  loud  world  rolling  by. 

IY 

Lady  Laura,  leaning  there, 

Lonely,  in  a  land  forlorn, 
Saw  a  child  with  sunny  hair, 

Rise  beyond  the  clouded  corn ; — 
Fell  her  tears,  like  autumn  rain, 

As  she  thought  of  one  dark  day, 
And  a  warrior  lying  slain, 

On  the  banks  of  Mobile  Bay. 


Lady  Laura — she  is  gone! 

Lonely  is  that  lattice  high, — 
Still  forever  flies  the  swan, 

Still  the  clanging  cranes  go  by; 


LADY  LAURA  IN  THE  NORTH.         141 

In  the  North,  a  wanderer 

Clutches  for  a  vanished  hand ; 

Desolate  idolater, — 

He  can  never  understand. 


MEADOWS  OF  GOLD. 

Meadows  of  gold, — 

Rolling  and  reeling  a- west! 
Ye  clasp  and  hold 

The  milk  of  the  world  in  your  breast. 
Ye  are  the  nurses  who  clutch 
The  ladies  of  life,  and  touch 
The  lips  that  famish  and  burn, 
In  agony  cruel  and  stern. 

Meadows  of  gold, — 

Reaching  and  running  away! 
Shod  with  the  mold, 

And   crowned   with  the  light  of    the 

day. 

Ye  are  the  chemists  of  earth, 
The  wizards  who  waken  to  birth 
The  violets  blue,  and  butter-cups,  too, 
Under  the  dark  and  the  dew. 

Meadows  of  gold, — 

Winding  and  wending  along, 
Fair  to  behold, 

And  merry  and  mellow  with  song. 

(142) 


MEADOWS  OF  GOLD.  143 

Ye  are  the  poets  whose  chimes 
Are  rung  by  the  reapers-whose  rhymes 
Are  written  in  windrows  of  grass, 
By  musical  sickles  that  pass ! 

Meadows  of  gold, — 

Laughing  and  leaping  afar! 
Fast  in  your  fold, 

Forever  the  beautiful  are. 
Ye  are  the  Hebes  who  dip, 
And  lift  from  the  loam  to  the  lip, 
The  nectar,  whose  plethoric  flood 
Is  tinted  and  turned  into  blood. 


AT  UNCLE  REUBEN   RAGAN'S. 

At  Uncle  Reubel  Ragan's! — why,  the  present 
is  forgot 

At  the  very  faintest  mention  of  the  old 
enchanted  spot; 

And  swifter  than  a  swallow  skimming  down 
the  dewy  corn, 

My  memory  goes  laughing  back  to  boyhood's 
mellow  morn, — 

And  again  I  feel  the  breezes  of  the  beech- 
woods  on  my  cheek, 

As  I  pass  with  bow  and  arrow  by  the  spring- 
house  and  the  creek, 

And  merrily  wend  onward  to  the  Mecca  of 
my  joys, 

To  spend  a  day  in  Paradise,  with  Uncle 
Reuben's  boys. 

At  Uncle  Reuben  Ragan's  everything  was 
fair  and  sweet, 

From  the  blue  sky  bending  over,  to  the  blue 
grass  at  our  feet, — 

From  the  lisp  and  trill  and  twitter  of  the  cat 
bird  and  the  lark, 

(144) 


AT  UNCLE  REUBEN  RAGAN'S.         145 

To  the  wkippoorwill  that   whistled   from  the 

dingle  thro'  the  dark; 
The  days  were  full  of  riot,   and   the  nights 

were  full  of  rest 
As  balmy  as  the  moonlight  on  the  squirrel's 

breezy  nest: — 
As  I  plod  the  dim   past  over,  and  recount  its 

keenest  joys, 
My  bare-foot  fancy  wanders  off  with  Uncle 

Reuben's  boys. 

I  can    hear    the    walnuts    dropping    in    the 

pasture,  as  of  old, 
I   can   see   the   russets    rounding    into  solid 

globes  of  gold ; 
I  can  see  the  bearded  chestnuts  clinging  to  the 

browning  boughs, 
In  the  corner  of  the  orchard,  just  beyond   the 

saddle-house; 
I  can  hear  the  cider  gushing  from  the  mill, 

just  over  there, 
On  the  slope,   across   the   hollow,  in  the  cool 

October  air: — 
O,  I  live  the  old  life  over,  in  my  fancy,  as  my 

mind 


146        AT  UNCLE  REUBEN  RAOAN'S. 

Re-pictures  and  re-peoples  every  scene  it  left 
behind. 

The  little  stream  that  toddled  down  the  yard, 

and  slipped  away 
Thro'  the   pasture,   still   is   tinkling   in   my 

memory  to-day, 
And  the  barn  that  stood  beyond  it,  seems  to 

beckon  to  me  still, 
With  its   ever-greedy  rat-traps,  and   its   old 

red  fanning  mill; 
And  the  plum-patch  in   the  garden,  and  the 

tall  mulberry  tree, 
That  grew  beside  the  milk-house,  are  a-calling 

back  to  me, — 
And  again  the  maple  sugar  is  a-trickling  off 

my  tongue, 
Into  streams  of  sweeter  music  than  my  lips 

have  ever  sung. 

Count  my  fingers  three  times  over,  and  they 

scarce  make  up  the  years 
That  have    vanished,   like  a  vision,   in  the 

torrent  of  my  tears, 
Since  the  happy   days   of  boyhood,  ere  the 

green  earth  claimed  its  own, 


AT  UNCLE  REUBEN  RAG  AN 'S.        147 

And  Uncle  sank  to  slumber  in  the  shadow  of 
the  stone: — 

Gone  the  many  forms  and  faces — but  a  scat 
tered  few  remain, 

To  meet  us,  and  to  greet  us,  at  the  old  home 
stead  again; 

And  I — well,  here  I'm  sitting  'neath  my 
pines  in  Illinois, 

And  drinking  cider — in  my  dreams — with 
Uncle  Reuben's  boys. 


THE    NIGHT   YOU    QUOTED    BUKNS 
TO    ME. 

The  winds  of  early  autumn  blew 
Across  the  midnight.     Overhead 
A  wild   moon   up  the  heavens  fled, 

And  cut  the  sable  vault  in  two; 

We  heard  the  river  lap  and  flow, 
We  turned  our  poet-fancies  free — 

My  heart  did  all  its  cares  forego, 
The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 

A  gray  owl  from  a  blasted  limb, 

Dropped  down  the  dark,  and  blundered  by, 

As  if  a  fiend  with  flaming  eye 
Fast-followed  in  pursuit  of  him; 
Ah,  then  you  crooned  beneath  the  moon, 

A  ditty  weird  as  weird  could  be — 
And  Tarn  O'Shanter  crossed  the  Doon, 

The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 

We  praised  the  "  Lass  o'  Ballochmyle," 
We  talked  of  Mary,  loved  and  lost, 
Until  our  spirits  touched  and  crossed, 

And  melted  into  tears,  the  while; 

(148) 


THE  NIGHT  YOU  QUOTED  BUKNS.      149 

We  drank  to  "Nell,"  and  "Bonnie  Jean," 
To  "  Chloris,"  and  the  «  Banks  o'  Cree,"— 

Blest  hour!  I  keep  its  memory  green, 
The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 

The  Wabash  hills  their  heads  low  hung, 
As  floating  up  their  winding  ways 
They  caught  the  sound  of  "  Logan  Braes," 

And  heard  "Sweet  Alton's"  glory  sung; 

And  loud  the  Wabash  did  deplore 
That  no  brave  poet-voice  had  she, 

To  lend  her  fame,  forevermore, 

The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 

O  dear,  delightful  autumn  night, 

Forever  gone  beyond  recall ! 

Comrade,  the  clouds  are  over  all, 
And  you — you've   vanished  from  my   sight; 
Still  flows  the  river  as  of  yore, 

The  owl  still  haunts  the  lonely  tree, 
And  I'll  forget,  ah,  nevermore, 

The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 


THE     MYSTERY     OF    BARKINGTON 
MEADOWS. 

Over  the  Barrington  meadows  a  riderless 
steed, 

Whiter  than  moon-down  mist,  and  swifter  of 
speed 

Than  a  skirring  swallow,  cleaves  the  shim 
mering  light, 

Ghost-like,  galloping  ever  and  on  thro'  the 
night. 

Up  from  the  Barrington   meadows  a  cold  face 

peers 
For  aye,  at  the  stars,  and  the  winds,  and  the 

shifting  years, 
While  the  low,  perpetual  sobs  of  a  woman 

rim 
The  night  with  an  agony  vague  as  a  dream 

and  dim. 

Over  the  Barrington   meadows,  and  on  to  the 

morn 
Go    reeling  the    Bacchanal    bats    thro'    the 

O 

blasted  corn, 

(150) 


THE  MT8TERT.  151 

While  a  blood-red  poppy  bends  in  the  moon 

and  pleads, 
All  night,  for  the  soul  of  one  lying  stark  in 

the  reeds. 

Down  in  the  Barrington  meadows  a  dolorous 
rune 

Climbs  up  thro'  the  curling  mist  to  the 
marble  moon, 

And  ever  the  girdling  clouds  and  the  curdling 
airs 

Are  pale  with  the  gibbering  ghosts  of  un 
heard  prayers. 

Down  in  the  Barrington  meadows  a  death- 
bird  rings 

The  ominous  sky  with  the  rush  of  invisible 
wings, — 

And  sibilant  sighs  from  the  shuddering 
grasses  rise 

Like  shrieks  of  the  doomed,  at  the  bars  of 
Paradise. 

Down  in  the  Barrington  meadows  the  flowers 

are  nursed 
In  the  poisonous  blood-wet  loam  of  a  land 

accursed, 


152  THE  MYSTERY. 

And  rank  as  death  is  the  pool  at  the  root  of 

the  reed, 
"Where  drinks  each  night  the  wraith  of  the 

flying  steed. 


Down  in  the  Barrington  meadows  the  snake's 

swift  eyes 
Are  hot  in  the  tangled  sedge  where  the  dead 

man  lies; 
And    beetles    black    as    the    slayer's     soul, 

disport 
Over  the  crumbling  palace  where  Life  held 

court! 

Down  in  the   Barrington   meadows   a   swart 

lagoon 
Chafes  under  the  guilty  scowl  of  the  pallid 

moon, 
And  penitent  lilies,   drugged   with  the  dew 

and  slime, 
Quake  with  the  conscious  dread  of  a  nameless 

crime. 

But  the  spectral  steed  flies  on,  and  the  night- 
rains  beat 


THE  MYSTERY.  153 

Down  on  the  crumpled  heads  of  the  ruined 

wheat, — 
And   strong  men  start,  aghast,  with  a  stifled 

«7, 
When   the  wraith-like,  horrible  hoofs  of  the 

horse  go  by. 


WHEN  I  AM  OLD. 

"When  I  am  old, 
And  pass  into  my  dimmer  days, 

To  wither  and  repine, — 
Will  ever  minstrel  wake  my  praise, 

Or  lisp  one  lay  of  mine, — 
When  my  proud  spirit's  fires  are  cold, 
And  I  am  old? 

When  1  am  old, 
A  rivelled,  wrinkled  mass  of  mould, 

And  on  my  cheerless  hearth, 
I  heed  no  more  my  prattling  fold, 

Nor  any  sound  of  mirth, — 
Shall  I  to  dust  go  unconsoled, 
When  I  am  old? 

When  I  am  old, 
And  seek  no  more  to  garner  gold, 

And  o'er  my  sightless  eyes, 
The  lilies  of  the  grave  unfold 
Their  petals  to  the  skies, — 
Shall  I  be  slighted,  scorned,  cajoled, 
When  I  am  old? 

(154) 


WHEN  I  AM  OLD.  155 

When  I  am  old, 
And,  like  a  sear  leaf  on  the  wold, 

Tremble  at  every  gale, 
My  deeds, — will  they  be  unextolled, 

My  loss,  will  none  bewail, — 
"Will  Peace  her  just  rewards  withhold, 
When  I  am  old  ? 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  OLD  YEAE. 

I. 

With  stormy  glances  backward  bent, 
And  rivelled  lips  and  wrinkled  hands, 

He  steps  at  midnight  from  his  tent, 
And  hobbles  down  the  frozen  lands. 

II. 

Lear-like,  he  stands  against  the  storm, 
His  tattered  raiments  blown  apart, — 

His  withered  form  no  fire  can  warm, 
Nor  thaw  the  life-blood  at  his  heart. 

III. 

Like  some  grim  Yiking  of  the  North 
lletreating  from  a  plundered  ship, 

The  gray-beard  pilgrim  presses  forth, 
"With  scowling  brow,  and  scornful  lip. 

IV. 

In  moody  silence  moving  on, 

He  melts  into  the  moonless  night, 

And  ere  the  bells  ring  up  the  dawn, 
His  struggling  spirit  wings  its  flight. 

(156) 


AN  EXTRAVAGANT  SIMILE. 

The  prairie,  like  a  paper,  lies  unfolded  at  my 
feet — 

'Tis  the  Autumn's  last  edition — 'tis  her  illus 
trated  sheet — 

"Nature's  Quarterly!"  I  whisper,  as  my  rov 
ing  fancy  reads 

The  "  gossip  "  of  the  golden-rods,  the  "  chit 
chat"  of  the  weeds; — 

The  "  poems  "  of  the  meadows,  lying  scattered 
here  and  there, 

The  "  stories  "  of  the  stubble,  in  full  column 
everywhere, — 

The  "advertising  "  acres,  and  the  "  editorial" 
plots, 

And  the  "  parenthetic"  fences  round  the  "par 
agraphic  "  lots. 

Each  page  is  highly  colored,  and  around  the 

margin  runs 
A  forest,  like   a  ribbon,  stained  with  many 

summer  suns ; — 

(157) 


158  AN  EXTRAVAGANT  SIMILE. 

The  "  picture  "  of  a  village  in  the  middle  col 
umn  lies, 

Whose  tinted  houses  glimmer  with  at  least  a 
dozen  dyes; 

And  sprinkled  o'er  the  pages,  everywhere,  in 
gold  and  green, 

The  dwellings  of  the  farmers,  with  their 
strawstacks  in  between ; — 

'Tis  a  holiday  edition,  and  I  cannot  help  but 
think 

It  was  stereotyped  in  Heaven,  and  God  put  on 
the  ink. 


THE  PIONEERS. 


Here  where  the  bannered  corn  and  bristling 

wheat 
Toss   their  proud   tresses  to   the  rustling 

breeze; 
Here  where  the  arteries  of  commerce  beat, 

Thro'  laughing  lands  of  luxury  and  ease, — 
Where  lazy  cattle  crop  the  summer  leas, 

And  singing  rivers  woo  the  golden  sand; 
Here  where  the  poor  man  for  his  labor  sees 

Perennial  plenty  rise  on  every  hand, 
"We  dwell — the  youngest  heirs  of  Freedom's 
holy  land. 

II 

Where  yonder  marble  city  tops  the  plain, 

And  shining  temples  in  the  sunset  glow, 
Where    wealth    and    beauty   hold  perpetual 

reign, 
And    busy    hands   the  seeds   of  progress 

sow, — 
In  that  same  spot,  a  few  short  years  ago, 

(159) 


160  THE  PION'EERS. 

The  cabin  of  the  swarthy  pioneer, 
In  cheerless  solitude,  surpassing  show, 

Nurtured  beneath  its  roof  the  hearts  that 

were 

To  build  the  Empire  of  the  western  hemi 
sphere. 

Ill 

The  giants  of  the  infant  world,  who  slew 

The  dragons  of  the  wilderness,  were  they ; 
Along  the  lakes  and  by  the  mountains  blue, 

They  burned  the  stubborn  barriers  away, 
And  blazed  a  passage  for  the  brighter  day, 

With  ringing  axes  in  the  forest  deep ; 
Their  glory  is  our  own !  and  I  would  pay 

The  feeble  tribute  of  my  verse,  to  keep 
Their   hardships    unforgot,   while    we    their 
blessings  reap. 

IY 

They  dammed  the  rivers,  and  they   built  the 

mills, 
They  trapped  the  beaver,  and  they  tracked 

the  bee; 
They  harvested  the  wild  grapes  on  the  hills, 


THE  PIONEEHS.  161 

And  steeped  the  fragrant  sassafras  for  tea, 
Stealing  their  sugar  from  the  maple  tree; 
The  bloodroot,  mandrake,  and  the  bitter 
sweet, 

All  precious  herbs,  and  bountiful  and  free, 
Outspread   their   healing   virtues   at   their 

feet, — 
Nature's  apothecaries  in  her  rude  retreat. 


For  them  the  plum  tree  shed  its  purple  fruit, 

In  gleaming  nuggets,  'midst  the  thicket's 

shade ; 
In  Spring,  the  wild  strawberry's  tender  shoot, 

Bediamonded  with  crimson  jewels,  made 
The  hollows  glitter  like  a  masquerade; 

Then  Autumn  with  her  brown  nuts  came 

at  last, 
Pouring  her  cornucopia  in  the  glade, 

Ere  surly  winter  blew  his  chilly  blast 
Upon  the  naked  flats  and  sealed  his  larder 

fast. 
1 1 


162  THE  PIONEERS. 

VI 

And  then  the   snows  came,  and  the  squirrel 

slept 

Within  the  upper  chambers  of  the  oak; 
And  thro'  the  night  the  watchful  rabbit  leapt, 

And  the  wild  fox  within  his  den  awoke, 
The    darkness    buttoned   'round   him   like  a 

cloak, 

And  pausing,  listened  for  the  crowing  cock; 
Afar  the  wolf's  howl  thro'  the  forest  broke, 
And  the  brusque  owl  sat  hooting  on  the 

rock, 

And   preening   the   feathers   of    his   antique 
frock. 

YII 

And  Summer  carpeted  with  shining  flowers 
The  old  primeval  temples,  and  the  song 

Of  wild  birds  pierced  the  uninvaded  bowers, 
With  endless  melody,  when  days  were  long, 

And  hearts  were  innocent,   and  hands  were 

strong, 
And  love  as  guileless  as  the  feet  were  free; 

And  Eden  streams,  the  Eden  fields  among, 


TEE  PIONEERS.  163 

Ran  dimpling  to  the  lakes  and  to  the  sea, 
Like  unwatched  children  in  their  idle  revelry. 

VIII 

But  those  were  troublous  times,  and  fell 

disease 
Lurked  like  a  demon  in  the  stagnant 

swamp, 
Amidst  the  shadows  of  the  cypress  trees, 

Where  the  dull  fire-fly  lit  his  chilly  lamp, 
And  the  sleek  lizard  slumbered  in  the  damp, 

Beside  the  reeking  serpent  and  the  newt; 
Contagion  strode  with  no  unsteady  tramp, 
Beneath  the  roof,  and  plucked  the  heart's 

best  fruit, 

And  draped  the  lonesome   soul   with   agony 
acute. 

IX 

Anon,  upon  the  sloping  upland  shone 

New    billows    of    brown     earth,     unseen 

before, — 
With,    here    and    there,    a   strangely-shapen 

stone, 
Wraith-like,  uprising  from  the  tufted  floor, 


164  THE  PIONEERS. 

With  reeling  lines  of  grief  engraven  o'er 
Its  ghastly  facets,  by  some  finger  rude; 
(Death   laughs   to   scorn  the  legends  on  his 

door, 

Whether  within  the  dim  wood's  solitude, 
Or  in  the  gilded  shrines,  where  giddy  crowds 
intrude.) 


Ah!    there   were  dangers, — there  were  acci 
dents 

By  flood  and  field  of  which  we  little  wot ; 
The  tempest  pitched  its  melancholy  tents 

Above  the  forest,  and  the  lightning  hot 
Flashed  thro'  the  roaring,  reeling  oaks,  and  shot 

Its  flaming  bolts  along  each  toppling  height; 
Trailing  its  terrors  o'er  the  settler's  cot, 

And  marking  in  the  fury  of  its  flight, 
Forsooth,  a  smoking  track  of  ruin,  wreck  and 
blight. 

XI 

Death  came  in  many    forms, — the  vengeful 

snake 
Unloosed  its  venom  with  unerring  aim; 


TEE  PIONEERS.  165 

The  burly  black  bear  loitered  in  the  brake, 

And  nightly  to  the  hill  the  panther  came, 
And  stealthily  outstretched  its  agile  frame, 
To  watch  and  seize  the  unresisting  prey; 
Aye,  there  were  perils  more  than  tongue  can 

name, 
That    compassed  those  old  foresters, — yet 

they 

"With  souls  of  flint,  toiled  on,  thro'  all  that 
twilight  grey. 

XII 

Around  their  huts  the  wily  Indian  crept, 

His  shaft  as  sudden  as  the  serpent's  sting, 
And  many  a  weary  mother,  as  she  slept, 
Was    startled   by  the   war-whoop's    dismal 

ring, 

The  hiss  of  arrow  and  the  twang  of  string, 
Or  the  fierce  tumult  of  the  savage  horde, 
Beneath  the  wood,  in  their  wild  jargoning ; 
And  many  a  cabin  by  the  torch  was  low 
ered, 

And  many  a  father's  blood  around  his  altar 
poured. 


166  THE  PIONEERS. 

XIII 

And  prattling  boys  the  rifle  learned  to  wield, 
"With  fatal  skill, — the  pioneers'  first  trade, — 
To  them  the  bounding  buck  was  forced  to 

yield 

His  life  blood,  in  the  leafy  ambuscade, 
Where,  all  unharmed,  for  ages  he  had  strayed ; 

Heroic  boyhood!  never  belted  knight 
"With  dangling  plume,  more  hardihood  dis 
played 

In  civil  conflict,  or  in  foreign  fight, 
Than  daily  marked  the  lives  of  those  of  whom 
I  write. 

XIY 

All  night  within  the  clearing  gleamed  their 

fires, 
The  dawn-lights   of   the   splendor   yet    to 

come; 

The  wilderness  reeled  back  before  our  sires, 
And    Sharon's    rose,    deep-rooted    in   the 

gloom, 
In  virgin  beauty  burs  ted  into  bloom, 

And  shook  its  fragrant  petals  o'er  the  sod; 


THE  PIONEERS.  167 

Swift  fingers  sped  the  shuttle  thro'  the  loom, 

And  Titan  forms  amid  the  dark  hills  trod, 
In  rugged  splendor  they,  true  oracles  of  God. 

XV 

With  hands  inured  to  toil,  and  hearts  to  love, 
The   border    prophets    taught    the    Word 

divine ; 
In  lowly  chapel  and  sequestered  grove, 

Their  eloquence  burned  thro'  the  soul  like 

wine, 
And  drew  the  evil-doer  to  the  shrine 

Of  wholesome  virtue,  rectitude,  and  grace; 
They  tamed  the  recreant  with  words  benign, 

And  brightened  every  hope-abandoned  face, 
With  blessed  comfortings — these  Cartwrights 
of  the  race. 

XVI 

But  they  are  gone, — the  old  plantocracy, — 
They've  withered  from  the  green-wood,  one 

and  all; 

Above  their  dust  the  wind  howls  dolefully, 
And  the  last   coon-skin   moulders   on  the 
wall; 


168  THE  PIONEERS. 

All,  all,  are  gone, — and  darkness  like  a  pall, 

Steals  o'er  the  mem'ry  of  the  pioneers; 
We  drink  the  honey,  where  they  quaffed  the 

gall, 

We  reap  the  fruitage  of  their  bitter  years, 
And   o'er  their  slumbers  deep,  outpour  the 
meed  of  tears. 

XYII 

Soft  be  their  pillow  in  the  forest  old, 

And  sweet  the  psalmody  of  bird  and  bee ! 
Their  deeds  by  distant  ages  shall  be  told, 

Their  virtues  be  transplanted  o'er  the  sea; 
Their  valor  built  the  newer  heraldry, 

And    shook    the    despot    on    his    ancient 

throne, 
And  brought  imperial  armies  to  their  knee; 

They  were  our  sires,  their  glory  is  our  own, 
From    sainted    Washington,     to    brave    old 
Daniel  Boone. 


TAKING  IN  THE  HAMMOCK. 

O,  relic  sweet  of  summer  rest, 

What  fond  mementoes  are  you  keeping 
Of  her,  the  beautiful,  who  pressed 

Her  pretty  cheek  to  you,  while  sleeping  ? 

I  see  a  withered  rose-leaf,  there, 
Among  your  tangles  intertwisted — 

And  here  a  tress  of  golden  hair, 
That  many  a  patient  plea  resisted. 

This  faded  ribbon  round  your  throat, 
Is  one  that  I  had  given  to  her, — 

And  here  I  lind  a  crumpled  note, 
The  relic  of  a  rival  wooer. 

Ah,  Hammock,  'pon  my  soul,  I  say, 
You're  like  a  naughty,  tattling  lover, 

Who,  when  his  mistress  is  away, 
Keeps  wearilessly  prating  of  her. 

Next  summer,  when  I  hang  you  out 
Between  the  pine-tree  and  the  maple, 

You'd  best  be  cautious,  thereabout, 
And  less  familiar  with  my  Mabel. 

(169) 


AT  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

I. 

O  wind  of  December! 
Blow  high!  blow  low! 
Blow  out  of  the  north — blow  over  the  snow! 

Blow!  Blow! 

Blow  out  of  the  east — blow  out  of  the  west — 
Blow  over  the  hills  by  the  cuckoo's  nest! 
Blow,  O  wind,  as  you  used  to  blow, 
In  the  wild,  white  ni^ht 

f  O 

Of  a  boy's  delight, 
In  the  Christmas  time  of  the  Long  Ago. 

II. 

O  fire  of  December, 

Glimmer  and  glow! 
Burn  like  the  heart  of  a  boy  I  know — 

Burn!  burn! 

Burn  till  the  pippins  burst,  and  then 
Burn  till  the  pop-corn  fills  the  pan! 
Burn,  O  fire,  till  the  midnight  chime 

Shall  beckon  to  bed 

Each  golden  head, 
To  dream  the  dreams  of  the  Christmas -time. 

(170) 


THE  OLD  MAJOR  SPEAKS. 
I. 


Long,  long,  has  been  the  journey,  but  the  end 

is  drawing  near, 
"We  started  out  at  dawn,  good  wife,  and  now 

the  dusk  is  here; 
Long,  long,  has  been  the  journey  that   our 

weary  feet  have  made, 
And  the  hopes  we  held  the  dearest,  at  the 

dawning,  have  decayed; 
A  storm  came  up  the  valley,  as  we  crossed  the 

Great  Divide, 
And   two   who  traveled   with    us,  then,  fell 

stricken  at  our  side, — 
Fell,  shivered  in  the  blast  of  death,  that  round 

us  blew  and  beat, — 
Fell,   where  their  bleeding  bodies  paved  the 

path  for  Freedom's  feet — 
And  when  at  last  the  storm  was  past,  and  all 

the  sky  grew  fair, 
We  found  the  channels  on  our  cheeks,   the 

silver  in  our  hair. 

(171) 


172  THE  OLD  MAJOR  SPEAKS. 

II. 

But  dry  your  tears,  my  own  good  wife!  loop 

up  your  locks  of  gray, 
And  slip  the  glasses  off  your  eyes,  and  cheat 

the  years,  to-day, — 
For  tho'  the  snow  be  on  the  roof,  the  frost  be 

on  the  pane, 
Some  blossoms  of  the  early  spring  within  our 

hearts  remain; 
Still   on   these   bleak   December  boughs,  fast 

falling  to  decay, 
In  fancy  I  can  see,  to-night,  again  the  blooms 

of  May, — 
Can  hear  the  robin  fluting  on  the  old  familiar 

tree, 
The  babble   of   the  brook  below — the  bluster 

of  the  bee — 

Can  see  the  lilac  blushing  still,  beside  the  gar 
den  walk, 
And  hear  the  jewelled  humming-bird  upon  the 

hollyhock. 

III. 

Tho'  long  has  been  the  journey,  wife,  that  we 
have  had  to  go, 


THE  OLD  MAJOR  SPEAKS.  173 

The  skies  are  bright  above  us,  now — the  winds 

no  longer  blow, — 
Across  the  valley,  yonder,  I  can   see  the  open 

sea, 
Where  the  ships  are  sailing  outward  to  our 

"  ain  countree," — 
I  can  hear  the   sailors  singing — I  can  see  the 

crowded  shore, 
Where  the  signal  lights   are  burning,  and  the 

banners  blowing  o'er; 
We   are  listed   for   the   voyage, — soon  we'll 

reach  the  harbor-gate, 
Where  the  boats  come  up  to  anchor,  and  we 

wont  have  long  to  wait, — 
And  when  the  Captain  calls  us,  be  it  dark,  or 

be  it  light, 
We'll  climb  aboard  the  stately  ship,  and  bid 

the  world,  "  Good-night" 


A  GARLAND  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

Dumb  be  the  bugle  and  the  drum, 

And  light  the  footsteps  o'er  the  brave ; 

'Tis  not  in  festal  throng  we  come, 

"With   lips  that  laugh,  and  plumes  that 
wave; 

Nay!  nay!  a  holier  task  is  ours, 

Love  writes  his  elegy  with  flowers. 

"When  May  drops  down  the  rolling  year, 
And  lightly  leads  her  choral  train, 

"We  turn  with  loving  homage  here, 
To  strew  these  tokens  o'er  the  slain — 

O'er  those  who  perished  when  the  tide 

Of  wild  war  swept  the  country  wide. 

Each  rounded  fortress  at  our  feet 
Enwraps  a  hero's  patriot  fire, — 

Long  since  that  heart  has  ceased  to  beat, 
That  valiant  spirit  to  aspire ; 

Nor  sabre's  clang,  nor  cannon's  roar, 

Shall  break  the  warrior's  slumber  more. 

(174) 


A  OAKLAND  FOR  THE  DEAD.          175 

Among  the  tombs  we  idly  stray, 

Our  souls  with  mournful  memories  rife, 

Till  almost  in  the  glare  of  day, 

Those  wasted  comrades  spring  to  life ; 

And  here,  amidst  the  fields  and  flowers, 

We  seem  to  clasp  dead  hands  in  ours. 

Nor  here  alone  does  memory  trace 
Her  sable  lines  of  dumb  despair, — 

On  many  a  distant  battle-place, 
Their  eyeless  sockets  upward  stare, 

Where  never  weeping  kindred  come, 

With  bended  head  and  muffled  drum. 

They  sleep  beside  the  Tennessee, 
By  Donelson's  old  ruined  fort; 

In  Sherman's  pathway  to  the  sea 
The  pale  battalions  hold  their  court; 

From  Franklin,  Shiloli,  Malvern  Hill, 

They  answer  to  the  death-roll  still. 

On  Mission  Ridge  the  wild  birds  chant 
Above  the  gray  blouse  and  the  blue, 

And  where  the  gallant  hosts  of  Grant 
Stormed  Yicksburg,  there   the  dead  are, 
too; 


176          A  GARLAND  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

Their  records,  writ  with  shot  and  shell, 
Show  how  they  fought,  and  how  they  fell. 

They  rest  by  Libby's  ruined  pile, 

From  Georgia's  hell  their  wraiths  arise; 

They  sleep  beside  the  dark  Belle  Isle, 
And  'neath  the  Carolina  skies, — 

A  shadowy  band  and  desolate, 

Whose  graves  no  hand  may  decorate. 

By  dim  lagoons  where  serpents  trail, 
And  seldom  human  footsteps  pass; 

Their  bones  are  whitening  in  the  gale, 
And  glistening  in  the  tangled  grass ; 

Their  guns  still  mould'ring  in  their  grasp, 

The  friends  that  felt  their  parting  clasp. 


The  pyramids  by  Cheops  built 

At  length  shall  crumble  and  decay, 

But  never  blood  for  Freedom  spilt 
The  tears  of  heaven  shall  wash  away ; 

A  sacred  symbol  shall  it  be 

Of  those  who  died  for  liberty. 


THE  FOOLISH  MAKINERS. 

(For  the  Children.) 

They  set  us  afloat  in  a  willow  boat, 

Upon  a  northern  sea, 
And  we  drifted  on  thro'  dusk  and  dawn, 

As  merry  as  men  could  be ; 
The  air  was  white  to  left  and  right, 

And  white  was  the  air  before, 
But  behind  our  bark  the  world  was  dark, 

And  we  heard  the  kraken  roar. 

As  we  passed  the  lair  of  the  Polar  bear, 

"We  called  aloud  to  him, 
And  he  came  to  the  door,  and  sniffed  and 
swore, 

And  stroked  his  eyebrows  grim, — 
Then  buttoned  his  coat  about  his  throat, 

And  galloped  along  in  our  train, 
So  far  and  fast,  that  he  froze  at  last, 

And  never  got  home  again. 

"We  shook  our  fist  at  the  fog  and  mist, 
All  under  the  Arctic  Zone, 

1  2  (177) 


178  THE  FOOLISH  MARINERS. 

And  sailed  away,  from  day  to  day, 

So  jolly,  and  cold,  and  lone, — 
So  jolly  and  cold,  so  free  and  bold, 

A  curious  sight  were  we, 
A-sailing  away  from  day  to  day, 

Upon  the  northern  sea. 

And  round  about  and  in  and  out, 

Wherever  the  breeze  up-blew, 
With  shout  and  song  we  swept  along, 

An  hundred  summers  through ; 
Yet  day  by  day  we  all  turned  gray, 

And  skinny,  and  grim,  and  wild, — 
But  the  captain  he,  and  the  mate  and  me, 

We  sat,  and  smiled,  and  smiled. 

I   smiled   at   the   mate,  and    the   captain, 
straight, 

He  grinned  at  the  mate  and  me, 
And  to  lessen  the  weight  we  killed  and  ate 

The  rest  of  the  crew,  you  see; 
Then  the  captain  he  grew  fond  of  me, 

And  I.  grew  fond  of  the  mate, 
And  all  together  we  killed  each  other, 

And  ate,  and  ate,  and  ate. 


THE  FOOLISH  MARINERS.  179 

Now,  barken  here,  my  children  dear, 

If  ever  you  put  to  sea, 
Remember  the  mate,  and  the  captain's  fate, 

And  the  end  that  came  to  me; 
Bad  luck  to  the  day  we  sailed  away, 

In  search  of  the  Northern  Pole, — 
My  skeleton  lies  under  Arctic  skies, 

And  the  good  Lord  has  my  soul. 


SONNETS   AND    RONDEAUX 


TO  A  SLEEPING  BOY. 

Ah,  little  dreamer!  stealing  from  the  day, 
The  golden  keystone  of  the  arching  hours, 
To  lay  thy  drowsy  head  among  the  flowers, 

And  down  Lethean  waters  sail  away! 

The  wind  is  in  thy  ringlets,  boy,  and  they, 
In  flossy  tumult,  fall  in  fairy  showers 
Around  thy   cheek,   and   all   thy   childish 
powers 

Are    chained    in   sleep,    beneath    the    sun's 
bright  ray. 

The  beetle,  droning  in  the  apple  tree, 
Thy  mate  is,  and  the  whistling  bobolink 

Pipes  half  his  sweetest  roundelays  to  thee; 

Sleep,  little  truant,  in  the  singing  grass ! 
The  days  will  wither,  and  the  years  will 
shrink, 

And  all  too  soon  thy  rosy  dreams  will  pass. 

(183) 


A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

Upon  the  cooling  summer  grass  the  dark 
Falls  lightly,  and  the  panting  violet 
Uplifts  its  purple  lip  and  lash  of  jet, 

To  sip  the  slow-descending   dews.     The  lark 

Is  softly  sleeping,  pillowed  in  an  ark 
Of  sighing  grasses,  like  some  old  regret 
Couched  in  the  bosom  of  an  anchoret, 

Amid  dead  loves  that  rattle  stiff  and  stark. 

The  crooked  moon  is  peering  thro'  the  pines, 
And   checkering  the  lawn   with   leaves  of 
light, 

And  belting    all  the  dim  fields  with  broad 

lines, 

That   stretch   like   silver   ribbons   through 
the  night; 

Stars  on  the  grass,  and  fire-flies  on  the  vines, 
And  sorrow  in  the  breast  of  every  wight. 

(184) 


WHEN  I  COME  HOME. 

When  I  come  home,  my  labor=  through, 

Between  the  day-fall  and  the  dew, 
There  comes  a  sound  of  nimble  feet 
Swift-flying  down  the  path  to  meet 

My  own — with  laughter  and  halloo. 

The  cares  that  day  by  day  accrue, 
Turn  backward  and  no  more  pursue, — 

Turn  back  from  this,  my   welcome  sweet, 
When  I  come  home. 

If  I,  beyond  the  welkin  blue, 
Shall   e'er   go   thither   to  renew 

My  life  so  frail  and  incomplete — 

I  only  hope  some  boy  will  greet 
Me  there — just  as  my  own  boys  do, 
When  I  come  home. 

(185) 


AT    MILKING    TIME. 

At  milking  time,  when  shadows  climb 
The  pasture-bars,  and  sheep  bells  chime 
High  up  along  the  sunset  hill, — 
'Tis  sweet  to  wander  where  we  will, 
And  take  no  thought  of  care  or  time. 

The  heart  of  boyhood  in  its  prime 
Lights  up  with  joy  the  cheek  of  grime, 
When  katydids  come  out  and  trill, 
At  milking  time. 

There's  not  in  any  land  or  clime, 
An  hour  so  sacred,  so  sublime, 
As  that  when  patient  kine  distill 
The  wines  of  life,  in  many  a  rill 
Of  rippling  and  resilient  rhyme, 
At  milking  time. 

(186) 


OCTOBER. 

Upon  the  dreamy  upland  aureoled, 
I  saw  the  sombre  artist,  Autumn,  stand, 
Ghostlike,    against  the  dim  and   shadowy 

land, 

Limning  the  hills  with  purple  and  with  gold ; 
And  while  I  gazed  a  mighty  mist  uprolled, 
As  at  the  touch  of  some  enchanter's  wand, — 
And  all  the  woods  by  sudden  winds  were 

fanned, 

And  darkness  fell  upon  the  amber  wold. 
Out  of  the  frosty  north,  like  Indian  arrows, 
In    never-falt'ring  flight,    the   wild   ducks 

flew; 
And    from    the    windy    fields    the   summer 

sparrows 

Reluctantly    their     feathery    tribes    with 
drew, — 

As  from  the  heart  the  hopes  of  manhood  fly, 
When  the  sad  winter  of  old  age  draws  nigh. 

(187) 


NOVEMBER 

Deep  lie  the  shadows  on  the  russet  slopes, 
Loud  blows  the  wind   and  shrilly  falls  the 

hail ; 
The    tangled   sedge-grass    closes    o'er   the 

quail, 
And   on   the    withered    hill   the   woodchuck 

mopes, 
A  dusky  image  of  disastered  hopes, 

Against    whose   roof   the   ruthless   storms 

prevail ; — 

November!  and  the  farmer  hunts  the  flail, 
And  puny  Autumn  poets  seek  for  tropes. 
Alack -a-day !  that  Nature  e'er  should  robe  her 
Glorious  form  in  gloomy  garbs  like  these ; 
Alas !  the  faded  splendor  of  October, 

The  summer  gone,  and  its  Arcadian  ease; 
The  lengthened  year   is   glimmering   to   its 

close, 
Mid  piping  tempests,  and  descending   snows. 

(188) 


WHEKE  WILLIE  WAS. 

Where  Willie  was,  the  daylight  dies, 

And  deathlike  silence  overlies 

The  greensward  and  the  garden,  where 
His  baby  feet,  once  brown  and  bare, 

Went  pattering  under  summer  skies. 

Now  stilled  for  aye  the  childish  cries, 
And  hushed  the  tender  lullabies 
A  mother  sang,  at  twilight,  there, 
Where  Willie  was. 

And  I — I  marvel  if  those  eyes, 
Unsealed  in  yonder  Paradise, 

Look,  ever,  down  the  shining  stair 

Upon  the  little  empty  chair, 
And  scattered  playthings  that  we  prize, 
Where  Willie  was. 

(189) 


IN  DAYS  TO  COME. 

(TO  j.  w.  K.) 

In  days  to  come,  when  you  and  I 
Wax  faint  and  frail,  and  heartfires  die, 

And  tinkling  rhymes  no  more  obey 

The  wooing  lips  of  yesterday, 
How  slowly  will  the  hours  go  by. 

When   we  have   drained  our  song-cups  dry, 
My  comrade,  shall  we  sit  and  sigh, 
Childlike,  o'er  joys  too  sweet  to  stay, 
In  days  to  come? 

Nay!  nay!  we'll  give  old  time  the  lie, 

And,  thatched  with  three  score  years,  we'll  try 

A  rondeau  or  a  roundelay, 

As  long  as  any  lute-string  may, 

To  our  light  touches,  make  reply — 

In  days  to  come. 

(190) 


CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 

i 

And  now  the  good  St.  Nick  is  come  and  gone, 
And  many  a  fluffy  head  bursts  into  flower, 
Above  the  blanket,  at  the  twilight  hour, 

With  darting  eyes  that  dip  into  the  dawn, 

Seeking  the  cheery  chimney -jamb,  whereon 
The  pouting  stocking,  like  some  toppling 

tower, 

Breaks  with  its  weight,  and  splits  into  a 
shower 

Of  broken  rainbows,  round  a  tropic  zone. 

The  sun  climbs  up  and  on!  the  merry  chime 
Of  mellow  sleigh-bells  tinkle  o'er  the  snow; 

Each  crimpled  shrub  is  rimpled  up  with  rime, 
And  from  the  eaves  the  long  icicles  grow, 

Till  night  steals  on,  and  moonbeams  through 
the  trees 

Kiss  down  our  lids  to  pleasant  memories. 

(191) 


DOOM. 

There  is  a  legend  by  the  Norsemen  told, 
How  Odin  to  each  field  of  battle  sends 
His  priestess,  Yalkyr,  at  whose  finger-ends 
The  spools  of  destiny  are  all  unrolled; 
Pallid  as  Parian  marble  and  as  cold, 

She   passes    where    the    thickest    carnage 

trends, 

Ambassadress  of  doom  to  foes  and  friends, 
Marking   for    speedy   death   the   strong  and 

bold. 
So,  in  the  silent  underlands  of  life, 

Concealed  amidst  the  sunshine,  airy  forms 

And  subtle,  sit  perpetually  and  spin 
The  tangled  toils  that  trip  us  in  the  strife, — 
They  braid  the  lightning  and  unbind  the 

storms, 
And  ope  the  gates  for  death  to  enter  in. 

(192) 


RONDEAUX  OF  REMEMBRANCE. 

In  airy  halls  they  dwell,  to  day, 
These  friends  of  ours! — On  every  spray, 
Again  the  blooms  of  summer  cling, 
Again  the  bonnie  blue-birds  sing, 
But  they  come  not,  for  aye  and  aye. 

We  hear  their  voices  far  away, 
Beyond  the  night,  beyond  the  day, 
Beyond  the  sound  of   sorrowing, 
In  airy  halls. 

They  lived — they  loved — the  Blue  and  Gray, 
They  fought  as  brave  men  fight,  alway, — 

They  fell — God  knows  their  suffering! 

God  knows  we  wept  when  Death's  fell  sting 
First  set  their  stormy  souls  astray, 
In  airy  halls. 

They're  now  at  rest!     No  bugle's  bray, 
No  sound  of  flute,  no  virelay, 

No  murmur  of  returning  spring, 

Nor  any  wild-bird's  caroling, 
Can  wake  them  more — ah,  well-a-day ! 

1  3  (193) 


194   RONDEAUX  OF  REMEMBRANCE. 

Beneath  the  loving  light  of  May, 
"Where  we  our  tender  tributes  pay, 
In  tears  of  sweet  remembering, 
They're  now  at  rest. 

"We  sigh — we  sing  in  strains  that  say, 
To  them  whose  brows  are  bound  with  bay, 
"God  bless  you !"  while  we  wreathe  and  ring 
Their  tombs  with  amaranth.     A  king 
For  such  a  death  might  pray,  but  they— 
They're  now  at  rest. 


DR.  JOHN  A.  WARDER. 

(ARBORICULTURIST.) 

His  was  the  gentle  spirit  of  the  woods, 
The  genius  of  the  tongueless  mysteries, 
Eternally  that  dwell  within  the  trees, 

The    flowers,   the  grasses,  and  the  bursting 
buds; 

A  member  of  their  secret  brotherhoods, 
He  caught  the  everlasting  symphonies 
Of  all  the  lute-lipped  leaves.     He  held  the 
keys 

Of  Nature's  variant  moods  and  solitudes. 

A  Druid  gray,  his  loving  life-blood  leapt 
In  transport  tremulous,  beneath  the  power 

Of  beauty  and  of  symmetry  that  slept 
Within  the  petals  of  the  frailest  flower ; 

Sweetest  of  all  the  songless  bards !  he  kept 
His  great  soul  stainless  in  his  Eden-bower. 

(195) 


A  BLUEBIKD  IN  JANUARY. 

A  ballet-dancer  in  a  church  yard,  thou, — 
A  jester  in  a  charnel-house — a  gleam 
Of  sunlight  falling  on  a  frozen  stream — 
A  sapphire  shining  on  an  Ethiop's  brow! 
O,  bluebird  lone,  perched  on  that  withered 

bough, 
Come  whistle  round  our  doorway,  till  we 

dream 

That  winter  days  are  over,  and  the  beam 
Of  jocund  summer  glitters  on  the  plow. 
The  mellow  ditties  of  thy  dapper  throat 
Fill  all  the  icy  air  with  phantom  Springs, — 
And   plumaged   pipers   with  a  rush    of 

wings, 

Seem  swarming  hither  at  thy  venturous  note; 
But,    ah,    brave     minstrel,    bleaker     days 

must  be 
Ere  blooms  the  buttercup  and  hums  the  bee. 

(196) 


COULD  SHE  BUT  KNOW  ? 

Could  she  but  know  the  love  that  stings 
My  panting  heart,  and  beats  its  wings 

Against  my  lips,  in  dire  distress, 

I  wonder  if  the  sorceress 
Would  deign  to  soothe  its  clamorings? 

Could  she  but  know  the  secret  springs 
That  feed  my  soul  with  sufferings, 

Would  she  the  bitter  pangs  make  less,- 
Could  she  but  know? 

Could  she  but  know  the  doubt  that  flings 
Its  shadow  o'er  my  heart,  and  brings 
Destroying  nights  of  sleeplessness, — 
O  would  her  pitying  lips  express 
One  word, — and  end  my  torturings, 
Could  she  but  know? 

(197) 


COULD   LOYE  DO  MOKE. 

Could  love  do  more?     He  laid  his  hand 

Upon  the  battle-axe  and  brand, 

And  through  the  conflict's  tire  and  smoke, 
Flashed  swift  and  keen  his  sabre  stroke, 

At  her  imperious  command. 

He  won  renown  in  all  the  land, 
For  her  sweet  sake, — that  he  might  stand, 
Triumphant,  and  her  love  invoke — 
Could  love  do  more? 

Alas!  she  scorned  him.     Pale  and  bland, 
He  turned  away.     Upon  the  strand, 

They  found  him  when  the  morning  broke, 
With  blood  upon  his  brow  and  cloak, 
And  only  she  could  understand: — 
Could  love  do  more? 

(198) 


MY  FAYORITE  POEM. 

It  is  a  little  volume,  velvet-faced, 

Lettered  with  blue,  and  flecked  with  pink 

and  white, 

With  flowers  of  fancy  daintily  bedight, 
On  leaves  of  lilied  purity,  and  graced 
With  quaint  designs,   inwrought  and  inter 
laced, 
That    touch  the    critic    sense    with   keen 

delight, — 

And  on  the  first  page,  Love's  own  copy 
right, 

In  lines  of  beauty  delicately  traced. 
A  miracle  of  poetry !     Each  day 

I  re-peruse  it,  for  within  it  lies 
A  dream  of  joy  that  charms  my  cares  away, 

And  opes  for  me  the  gates  of  Paradise; 
Nor  can  I  from  its  sweet  enchantment  stray, 
The  wondrous  epic  of  my  baby's  eyes. 

(199) 


DEATH,— WHAT  IS  IT  ? 

It  is  a  peaceful  end  of  all  desire, 

An  end  of  dreaming,  and  an  end  of  song, — 
A  happy  winding; up  of  right  and  wrong, 

A  quiet  quenching  of  the  vital  fire ; 

A  shadow  lying-  on  a  broken  lyre, — 
A  beggar's  holiday, — a  twilight  long, — 
A    landing-place     where    weary    pilgrims 
throng, 

A  tranquil  terminus  of  ways  that  tire. 

Death  is  a  respite  from  each  vain  regret, 
It  drops  the  curtain,  it  concludes  the  play, 
It  turns  the  lights  out,  and  it  leads  the  way, 

When  o'er  the  house-tops  all  the  stars  have 

set; 

Death  is  the  epilogue  to  which  we  list, 
Just  as  the  tired  audience  is  dismissed. 

(200) 


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